Missing Pieces
by Poison Ivory
Summary: An epic story, with kidnappings, fatal attraction, long-lost relatives, legendary treasures...oh, and a little love between our favorite blondes (no, not Simmons and Nadine...EW). THE END...the epilogue is up!
1. Helga

Missing Pieces  
  
Part I  
  
"Now boarding first class passengers...first class passengers, please step up to the gate."  
  
Helga G. Pataki picked up her briefcase and her purse and walked towards the gate.  
  
"Maintenant, premier classe, s'il vous plait..."  
  
"'Elga! Wait!"  
  
Helga sighed and turned around. "Jacques. I told you not to follow me."  
  
The darkly handsome man's liquid eyes looked pleadingly into hers. "I am sorry, 'Elga. I could not help it. Je t'aime...I love you." He fell to his knees, taking her hand in his. "Please...reste avec moi...s'il vous plait..."  
  
Helga gently removed her hand from his. "Jacques, I don't love you. You know that. I told you I would never love you. I don't love."  
  
He looked crushed. "But 'Elga...all those poems...I thought..."  
  
"They're just poems, Jacques. Just words. I'm going to miss my flight." The last was a lie. The flight attendents were no longer checking tickets, as everyone at the gate was far more interested in watching this little saga unfold. Helga didn't even blush at the eyes on her. She was used to it.  
  
Oh, well. Suck it up, Helga, old girl. Time to send him off.  
  
She pulled Jacques to his feet. "I don't love you, Jacques. I care for you...very deeply." The lines were so old she didn't even have to think about them anymore. "I'll never forget you. What you've shown me. What we had together." Gently, she pulled his head down to hers and kissed his trembling lips. His face was streaked with tears when she pulled back. "I have to go, Jacques."  
  
He released her. She stepped away from him, backing away slowly as if reluctant to leave. "I'll write a poem for you," she promised. "About our time together."  
  
He nodded slowly. "I will always love you, 'Elga."  
  
She smiled sadly. "Good-bye, Jacques." Turning, she walked onto the plane as the crowd erupted into applause.  
  
Once she was out of sight of Jacques, she switched over to her normal walk, her woman-with-a-mission stride. Would this never stop happening? Well, she had wanted the glamorous life of a writer, complete with ardent lovers throwing themselves at her feet...she had gotten it. Her charm had worked on every young man who caught her eye, who had something...something that reminded her of...him.  
  
For Jacques it had been the smallest thing--the ears. He had pursued her for her first few days in Paris, but she hadn't really payed him any heed until she noticed his ears. They were shaped exactly like the ones she remembered...the ones that she still dreamt about, ears and everything attached...  
  
She shied away from the name. The name was forbidden. Like an anorexic staring at pictures of food without partaking, she was teasing herself from afar, seeking out qualities that reminded her of him without letting herself remember him in anything more than the corner of her mind's eye. Sure, it was messed up, and neurotic, and self-punishing. But hey, she was an artist. Besides, with her parents what else could she expect?  
  
Not that she had seen her parents in the past...what was it now?...four years. Or spoken to them, for that matter. She remembered the last time she had spoken to them, when she had called them her sophomore year at Stanford to tell them she wasn't coming home for Christmas.  
  
"Not coming home? But Helga..." her mother had started to say, trailing off when the effort of standing and speaking at the same time overwhelmed her.  
  
"Listen, Olga, Christmas is a time for family!" her father had bellowed from another extension. "Whether you like it or not, you're coming home in three days and that's final!"  
  
Helga sighed gustily. She was getting good at that, lately. "One, my name is Helga, Bob. Not Olga, Helga. H-E-L-G-A. Number two, we are not a family. We're a selfish workaholic, an alcoholic, a perfect overacheiver, and a bitter and angry young woman who never felt loved." She could hear her mother and father gasp, while Olga's sweet little voice wondered aloud which one she was.  
  
"I will not stand for that kind of language, little lady!" Bob had thundered.  
  
"I don't care!" she had screamed back, shocked by her own anger. "You never loved me! You loved Olga! You always have, and you always will! And I don't care to come home to that, not anymore. I'm free now, and you can't break my will anymore!"  
  
"FINE!" he had shouted back. "I hope I live to see the day you eat your words, girl!"  
  
"Then you'd better live an awfully long time, Bob, because I meant everything I said," Helga hissed.  
  
"That's it! Until you apologize, you are no daughter of mine!" Bob yelled.  
  
Helga heard her mother and sister gasp, and Miriam spoke up, timidly. "B, don't you think you're being a little harsh...?"  
  
"Stay out of this, Miriam," he had snapped. "As of now, the girl is no longer a Pataki."  
  
"Then stop wasting my money on this phone call," Helga had said icily. Then she hung up.  
  
She knew Big Bob expected her to call any minute and beg forgiveness, but she was as good as her word. The next day she had gone down to City Hall and gotten her name changed, dropping the Pataki and becoming Helga Geraldine. Since she had (wisely) been unwilling to depend on Bob to put her through college, she had been working since she was twelve, and had no problem staying in school, especially with her writing scholarship. Then the first book was published, and money was no longer an issue...  
  
Lost in these thoughts, time slid by quickly, and Helga slid into sleep. She awoke when the plane touched down in Cairo. The second she was off the plane, she called for a limo, and within minutes it was there, earning admiring glances from other travellers as the driver held the door open for her and threw her small duffel in the trunk.  
  
The hotel was very near the airport for logistical reasons, and soon Helga was tossing her bags on a neatly-made bed. She did the first thing she always did when she got to a hotel room, regressing slightly into her childhood--she went for the mint. The scent reminded her, as always, of her childhood...Harold and the time they got stuck together at the Yahoo factory, all because of Chocolate Boy...even though they all thought he had kicked the habit for a while, because of Arn--  
  
She clamped down on the thought. Drink time, she decided, heading towards the minibar. Nothing looked promising, so she checked her watch. Eight o' clock...that was late enough. She decided to head down to the bar.  
  
She unzipped the duffel. Ah, Helga Geraldine, Queen of Packing. Lacy bras and panties. Pantyhose. Bikini. Shoes. Killer jeans. Ah, here it was...the legendary first-night-at-a-hotel bar-hopping little black cocktail dress. Cut low and high and snug in all the right places.  
  
She changed quickly and looked at herself in the mirror. Dress, still fitting perfectly, and suggestively. Four-inch stilletto heels. Pearl choker, silver watch, silver and pearl earrings. A touch of eye makeup and fire engine red lipstick. Sunbleached blond hair in a sleek French twist.  
  
Same old, same old.  
  
Grabbing her miniscule purse, she strutted out of her room and down to the bar. She felt all male eyes in the bar fasten on her immediately upon her entrance. Damn, she loved that feeling.  
  
She sat down at a bar stool, letting her already short skirt hitch up over her thighs an inch or two more. Soon the vultures would start swarming. Then to pick out one that reminded her of...him. A torrid love affair while she was in Cairo. An outpouring of poetry. Then a tearful good-bye at the airport and it was on to Madrid.  
  
"What'll you have, miss?" asked the bartender, who was clearly British.  
  
"Vodka. Plain," Helga replied. She had read about it in The Bell Jar and tried it once. Since then, she'd been hooked.  
  
Of course, when she tried it, she'd been with Ar--  
  
Strike that. Think of something else. Like the man making his way towards you right now.  
  
This one was another Brit, dressed in some snazzy threads, light brown hair combed neatly back. Well, that was one thing he didn't have-- unruly golden locks. She checked the eyes as he sat down. Brown. The lips--no. The ears--no. The walk--definitely not. Disappointed, she wrote him off. He was handsome, and looked like he might have been fun. But no resemblance, no go.  
  
"Hello there, miss," he said in that liquid accent, lifting a glass of amber beer in a toast to her. "Where did you fly in from? Heaven?"  
  
Helga let loose with an unladylike short. "That probably would've been easier on the winds. I'm more likely to come from the other place."  
  
He laughed, and Helga froze. The laugh...there was the similarity! Well, that was quick. He would do.  
  
He sensed her relaxation and began to talk in earnest, introducing himself as Edward Niles. Soon they were having a real conversation, and she was struck by his intelligence. Other men in the bar, sensing this, lost interest, and soon Helga had relaxed enough to become sufficiently drunk as the hours flew by.  
  
"Is it a full moon tonight?" Eddie asked, sipping gingerly at his beer. Helga was just sober enough to wonder how he'd only had about two beers when she couldn't count the number of drinks she'd had.  
  
"I don' know," she had replied, blinking owlishly at him. "I haven' been keepin' track." She laughed uproariously, as if that was the funniest thing anyone had even said.  
  
"Let's go outside and see," he suggested.  
  
"Okay," she agreed immediately. She got up from her stool and nearly collapsed as the full weight of her inebriation hit her. He caught her and held her up as she staggered towards the small balcony outside the bar.  
  
"No. This way," he said, pushing her towards the back door of the hotel. She was too out of it to question why.  
  
Soon they were out on the street, in the hot, sultry night. Helga looked up. "I can't see the moon," she giggled, her eyes closed. She opened them and looked back at Eddie to see whether he could find it.  
  
She found herself staring down the barrel of a gun.  
  
"Wh...what..." she stammered. Her stomach turned, and Eddie lowered the gun to let her throw up. As she stood up, groaning and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, he nudged her with the cool steel of the gun.  
  
"Come on. Let's go." His voice had lost all its earlier friendliness, and his face was harsh and cold.  
  
"Eddie, what's going on? What are you...doing?" Helga asked, forcing her way through the alcohol.  
  
"I said come on," he snapped. "Don't you listen, girl?"  
  
Maybe if she had been sober, she would have reacted differently. As it was...  
  
"No," she refused. "I won't go."  
  
He shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. With that, he brought the butt of the pistol down on her head, sending her into a thick, heavy blackness.  
  
He shook his head. Pocketing the gun, he lifted the crumpled rag of a girl lying on the sidewalk and headed towards a car where three other men lay in wait for their next victim. 


	2. Eddie

Author's Note: Hey, everyone. Thanks so much for the reviews! This is my first HA! fanfic, so I really appreciate it.  
  
Disclaimer: I forgot to do this before, but Hey Arnold! is, unfortunately, not mine. If it was, do you really think that I would be writing stories on FanFiction.Net? I mean, come on, people…  
  
  
  
Part II  
  
"Eddie"  
  
Helga awoke with a peculiar sensation and a not-so-peculiar sensation. The first was that something very hard was pressing against her face. The second was that she had a splitting headache.  
  
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking painfully at the intensely bright light, and realized that the hard thing pressing against her face was the floor. Slowly, she sat up and surveyed her new surroundings.  
  
She was in a small jail cell, about eight feet on each side. The walls were stone, and aged and crumbling. So was the floor and ceiling. The light that had been painful when she first opened her bloodshot eyes really wasn't all that strong—it filtered down through a tiny square window with bars set in it, a few feet above her head, if she were standing. There was a door behind her, made of stout, aged wood, with a similar barred window in it.  
  
She looked down at herself. There were heavy iron manacles on her wrists, with rings for chains to be attached, but no chains on them. She was still in her little black cocktail dress, only now it seemed horribly inappropriate, for obvious reasons. It was dirty and torn in a few places, and one of the straps that held it up was broken. Stupid shoddy Gucci workmanship, she thought, giving the dress up for lost. She was also dirty and bruised and suffering from an acute hangover.  
  
Of course, there were more immediate problems. Like the fact that she had been kidnapped and thrown into a jail in Cairo for no apparent reason. Helga hadn't been known as the angriest kid in P.S. 118 for no reason, and she was getting angry now.  
  
Eddie! Who was he? Why did he kidnap her? It made no sense! She had only told him her first name, so he couldn't have kidnapped her for money. Besides, this was a jail. From what she had heard through the grapevine, these places were used for political criminals or people you wanted to torture answers out of.  
  
She pulled herself to her feet and began to push against the stones, hoping one was loose. No luck. The window was too high up for her to reach, and the door was far too secure to break down. She was as tough as she'd ever been, but she wasn't that tough.  
  
"Hey!" she yelled. "Anyone out there?"  
  
There was a thump on the door. "Quiet in there!" a voice bellowed back in a harsh accent. Okay, so there was a guard.  
  
Helga slumped against a hard wall. She was stuck for the duration, obviously. Well, why not wait and see if anyone came to tell her why she was here?  
  
Suddenly she heard footsteps approaching and voices talking in Arabic outside her door. She stood, to await whoever was coming. There was the sound of a bolt being lifted, and then the door opened slowly. Two guards stood there, flanking a very familiar man.  
  
Helga threw herself at Eddie, clawing at his face. He laughed and stepped back as the guards immediately blocked her way with two very large, very scary-looking guns.  
  
"So Sleeping Beauty's awake, eh?" he asked dryly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  
  
"You bastard," she spat. "Who the hell do you think you are? Do you know who I am?"  
  
"Of course I do, Helga," he said. "Why do you think I…invited you here? Don't you know who I am?"  
  
"A lying snake?" she guessed.  
  
He laughed again. That laugh sounded less and less like Arn—like someone she had known—every time she heard it. "Close. Edward Niles. The biggest smuggler—and poetry fan—England has ever known. Now can you guess why you were taken here?"  
  
"What are you talking about?" she asked suspiciously.  
  
"I know who you are, Helga Geraldine. I knew who you were before I even sat down. I planned it all out." He began to pace the cell. Helga didn't take her eyes off him the whole time; the guards didn't take their guns off Helga.  
  
"I was living with a beautiful woman, Leighanne," Eddie explained. "I loved her. I wanted to marry her." His face turned grim. "Until I found out she was cheating on me. It broke my heart. I wanted to kill her, but she got into police custody and I couldn't touch her.  
  
"I was a wreck after that, you have no idea. I would lie in bed all day watching the telly, waiting for my life to be over. And then I saw you. On television. I misremember the show, but it was you. And you read a poem…I felt like you were reading straight out of my soul. 'You tore me with perfection/ You burned me with your beauty/ You teased me with the hope I'd never have…'  
  
"Then and there I decided to make you mine. You could understand my pain. You could love me. You would love me. All I had to do was find you. So when I discovered that you were coming to Cairo…well, I could bring you here. This is not technically in Cairo. It is a smaller city, a name you would not be able to pronounce, that follows a law unto itself. I have an…understanding with the local law enforcement. So here you shall stay, until you decide you are willing to accept my offer and learn to love me. Until then, you shall be treated as any other prisoner. Speaking of which, here is your food."  
  
A third guard entered and placed some bread, water, and dried fruit in a corner. Then he retreated. Eddie walked towards Helga.  
  
"So, what is your decision?" he asked, taking her face in his hand and tilting her chin up.  
  
Helga spat in his face. "That's what I think of you, you disgusting piece of filth," she told him, her voice low and shaking with anger.  
  
The guards moved towards her, but Eddie held up a hand. He pulled a handkerchief out and wiped his face, shaking his head ruefully. "I was afraid you would feel like that, at first," he said. "However, I am a patient man. You are a classy girl—you are used to better than this. Before long you will agree, if only to change out of that dress. I will come to see you tomorrow. Until then…" He made a little bow.  
  
The guards followed him out and closed the door, leaving Helga standing in the middle of the cell, her whole body quivering with rage. She heard the bolt slide home, and then Eddie's face appeared in the window.  
  
"By the way, your cellmate should be back soon," he told her. "He's just being whipped, as usual—it comes to those who are…disorderly. I dare say you may find yourself in such a position, unless your attitude improves. You may enjoy him though; he is quite good-looking. Farewell, my flaxen-haired angel," he said, taunting her with another line from one of her poems. She heard his footsteps retreat.  
  
This was a whole new thing to think about. Helga took a sip of water and then sat down, with no appetite to tackle the stale bread or three-day- old dates. A cellmate? A male cellmate? Probably some burly European oaf, some two-bit thief who had talked back to the wrong person. Well, he'd better not try anything, if he knew what was good for him. She'd protected herself from molestation before, especially in high school…she could do it again.  
  
About ten minutes later (although she had no real way to judge time), she heard footsteps approaching again, this time with voices raised in heated agitation. There was shouting in Arabic; she recognized a few insults.  
  
"Quick! Open the door! Get him in there!" a voice shouted in English, albeit with a heavy accent.  
  
"He bit me!" another voice cried. The bolt began to scrape open. Helga looked up, flattened against the wall, to see who they were putting in with her.  
  
The door swung open. "Get in there, American pig!" another voice shouted. A man was thrown violently in, onto his knees. He rose immediately, but one of the guards shoved him hard in the stomach with the butt of his rifle, forcing him back, and slammed the door. The bolt slid into place as the man threw himself at the door, shaking it slightly. Helga was impressed despite herself at his ferocity. She noticed that his shirt was so shredded it was barely more than rags, and his back was deeply scored and oozing blood over half-healed scars.  
  
The man bellowed something in Arabic, beating on the door. There was laughter outside, and then footsteps moving away.  
  
"Cowards!" the man shouted in English. His voice was American, and very familiar. "You don't dare laugh at me when I'm out there!" With no response, he slid slowly to the floor, to his knees. He seemed suddenly exhausted. He turned to crawl across the floor on his hands and knees, but saw her and froze.  
  
"Hello, miss," he said softly, his voice a warm tenor, slightly hoarse.  
  
Helga stared at him. Standing, he would have been almost six feet, a couple of inches taller than her. He was lanky but broad-shouldered and very tan, as if he'd been living in Egypt for quite some time. But he was clearly Caucasian—his hair was darker gold than hers, shaggy and unkempt, obviously uncut for a long time. His mouth was gentle but firm, and surrounded by a short, scraggly crop of reddish gold facial hair. His eyes were catlike, deep green with streaks of gold in them, and earnest. And his head…it was shaped… The lips, the nose, the ears…  
  
"Hello, Arnold," she said softly.  
  
  
  
Ooh, suspense…What did you think? Let me know! Part III, "Arnold," should be up soon! 


	3. Arnold

Author's Note: Hola! Once again, thanks oodles for the reviews. Y'all make me feel so special! I made it longer this time…and it's not so much of a cliffhanger…although obviously there's still a ways to go…enjoy!  
  
Disclaimer: I DO own Hey Arnold!, and Craig Bartlett IS my love slave! I'm also a consummate liar. You do the math.  
  
  
  
Part III  
  
"Arnold"  
  
Arnold's eyes widened. "How do you know my name?" he whispered.  
  
He hadn't recognized her? She didn't look that different from when they'd graduated high school. Well, he'd obviously been through a lot.  
  
"It's me, Helga. Helga…Pataki," she said, her old last name strange on her lips.  
  
Arnold's lips mouthed the word. "Helga?" He pulled himself back off of his knees, into a sitting position. "No…no, not again…" he began to mutter to himself, closing his eyes tightly, rocking back and forth.  
  
"Arnold? Arnold, what's wrong?" Helga asked. He looked on the verge of hysterics, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.  
  
"All these memories…all these visions…none of them are real…you're not real…" he explained, still with his eyes closed.  
  
"But I am real," she said, surprised. She inched closer to him, reaching out for his hand, then pulling back. After so long denying his existence, could she touch him, and make it raw and painful again? Impulsively, she grabbed for his hand.  
  
He opened his eyes and looked down at his manacled wrist, clasped between her fingers. Gently, Helga placed her other hand in his. His fingers curled around it, and he looked up into her eyes.  
  
Something inside of her exploded, and a thousand poems came sweeping out of her head. The past six years burned away, suddenly, leaving him as the idealistic, naïve boy she'd last seen at graduation, the boy who planned to be an archaeologist to follow in the footsteps of the mother he'd never known.  
  
But the eyes that burned into hers now were not the ones she had known, not entirely. The strength was still there, and the honesty…but the hope, the trust and the naïveté were gone, lost…maybe forever.  
  
His eyes widened, though, staring at her like a caged animal. "…Helga?"  
  
Her mouth quirked. "That's my name, Football Head."  
  
Suddenly Helga found herself wrapped in a bone-crushing hug, fighting for air as Arnold pulled her tightly against him. She remembered his hugs from childhood—for a scrawny kid, he had been quite exuberant in his affection. She heard his voice break with half-sobs near her ear.  
  
"Helga…" he choked out. "God, it's been so hard…you wouldn't believe…"  
  
She patted his back, a little uncertainly. She had never quite known what to do the few times he had hugged her, and she supposed slapping herself would have set him off again. He winced as she came into contact with raw skin, and she pulled her hand away quickly.  
  
Arnold released her and sat back on his haunches, obviously getting himself under control. "I'm sorry," he said finally. "They…I've been in here for six months, and they try to break your spirit…I thought I was going crazy, haunted by old memories, old regrets…And then you came, I thought you were some kind of hallucination…" Suddenly his brow furrowed. "Why are you here, anyway?"  
  
Helga suddenly flushed. "Ever seen the movie Misery?" she asked. He nodded. "This dirtbag Eddie…I just met him last night, at the bar at my hotel. He knocked me out and I woke up here. Apparently he's my biggest fan, or something, not to mention this huge English criminal, so he thinks that after a few days here I'm going to want to spend the rest of my life with him."  
  
"Your biggest…oh, the writing," Arnold said. "I have a couple of your books. But they're hard to find out here…I only have the ones that came out while we were in college. They're not bad."  
  
"Gee, thanks," Helga said sarcastically. Arnold's brow furrowed again.  
  
"Eddie…not Edward Niles?" he asked.  
  
Helga nodded. "You know him?"  
  
Arnold glowered, and Helga felt a chill. The Arnold she had known wasn't capable of such hate. "He's the reason I'm in here, too."  
  
Helga forced a laugh, trying to lighten the situation. "Don't tell me you're the love of his life, too!"  
  
Arnold didn't even smile. "You know I'm an archaeologist?" he asked. Helga nodded. "Well, so is Niles, in a sense. He wants the Lotus of Nefertiti." At Helga's blank look, he explained. "Ancient Egyptian treasure. Most say it's only a legend, but if it's real, it's priceless." Helga's blank look cleared. "Well, anyway, I uncovered a tomb six months ago with a scroll that had the secret to finding the Lotus on it. Niles found out, and tried to steal the scroll from me, so I burned it. Then he threw me in here, hoping to torture the answer out of me. It's been six months, and they haven't broken me," he said proudly, straightening a little.  
  
"Why don't you just tell him?" Helga asked.  
  
Arnold looked at her. "This thing isn't just valuable, Helga. It's powerful." Helga scoffed. "No, really! I've been doing this for two years, and the things I've seen…well, I bet they could make even you believe."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Helga asked, a little touchy.  
  
"I don't know. You were always…hard. Skeptical. Shrewd. I admired you." Arnold shrugged, then winced. "Stupid back…"  
  
"Let me look at it," Helga said, to cover her embarrassment. He turned around, and she helped him peel off the flayed rag that was his shirt, thinking as she did. He admired her? But for what? All the wrong reasons. Because he thought she was hard, that she didn't have faith in anything. Well, she had had faith in something. Him.  
  
His back was little more than a flayed rag, too. "You need to clean these cuts," Helga said. "I'll go get water."  
  
Arnold half-turned, making Helga wince as the cuts in his back opened further. "You have water?" he asked, a wildness in his eyes.  
  
"Sure," she said. "They brought me food and water. Don't they feed you?"  
  
"Sometimes," he said, the wild look still in his eyes. Helga got up and brought the basin of water to him. He drank greedily, water sloshing down his chin and chest in his haste.  
  
"Hey, hey, hey, slow down," Helga warned, taking the basin gently from him. "You'll make yourself sick. Are you hungry?" she asked offering him the bread.  
  
He obviously was, but held back. "Don't you want it?" he asked.  
  
"I'm not really hungry," she said truthfully. "I'll have a date. You eat. You looked starved." She handed him the bread. "But slowly," she commanded, feeling like she was talking to a child.  
  
She bundled up his shirt and dipped it in the water, then moved it to his back, carefully cleaning the wounds. There was a crisscrossing pattern of old scars on his back, with some redder, more raw strips, and finally, the six or seven still bleeding ones. She washed the grime away in silence, mopping up the blood and then pressing the rag that had been his shirt to his back to stop the bleeding, which had begun anew with the clearing of the grime that blocked it.  
  
Arnold. She had loved him intensely as a child, wrapping herself up in her passion for him so that she could ignore the travesty that was her life. Her every waking moment had been spent in frantic outpourings of unconditional love, her taunting and bullying, her poems and musings, all the masked cries for love that she desperately needed. Now she had love, love from dozens of men…but they were sociopaths like Eddie and needy romantics likes Jacques, and they didn't give her the fulfillment she had always craved.  
  
And Arnold? Arnold was deeply scarred, and it wasn't just physical. Helga had no experience with the methods used to break a man, but she had a feeling that they weren't pretty. The way he had reacted to her, his desperation, his hunger for…something, she didn't know what…this was not the Arnold she had known. This was a man driven to his basic emotions, left with nothing but raw emotions. Fear, anger, hunger…none of the complicated good-samaritanism she had seen in the younger, untried Arnold. Was that behind him now? She didn't know.  
  
Well, was she the girl she had been? She was certainly prettier. And she was certainly still afraid to make connections, to let herself open up to anyone. And her secret? Would it be so bad if she told Arnold, now, that she had loved him?  
  
* Had * loved him?  
  
"Thanks," he said, breaking into her reverie.  
  
"Don't mention it," she replied gruffly. "Does it hurt very much?"  
  
"It's not too bad," he said, wiggling his shoulders a little.  
  
"What do we do now?" Helga asked.  
  
He spread his hands. "We sit."  
  
"That's all?"  
  
He laughed a little. The laugh was rusty, but genuine. "There's not much to do, in jail," he informed her. "I doubt they'd lend us a game of Monopoly to play, or something."  
  
She smiled, relieved by the joke. "What?" he asked, noticing the look in her eyes.  
  
She shook her head. "Nothing. It's just…it's good to see that you're…still alive," she said. "That you still have…humanness in you."  
  
He looked away. "I don't know if I do," he said softly.  
  
"Of course you do. Don't say that," she said, edging towards him. He leaned against the wall behind him, and she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. "Of course you do," she repeated, for lack of anything better to say. "You're…well, you're Arnold. You've always had hope. You've always had warmth, and faith in human kindness. You've…always relied upon the kindness of strangers," she said in her best Scarlett O 'Hara accent. "I don't know." He laughed. It encouraged her. "You got us all through adolescence. You…you got me through."  
  
He looked at her at that. "And how did I do that?" he asked. "I always thought you hated me."  
  
She looked away. "I never hated you. I didn't know how to relate to you."  
  
"Why?" he asked. "Why was it so difficult? I didn't make it hard on purpose."  
  
She sighed. Even after all this time, she couldn't tell him. "I don't know," she lied.  
  
They lapsed into silence. "So you've written more books?" Arnold asked finally, breaking the tension.  
  
Helga relaxed a little and smiled. "Yes…I'm working on my seventh now. 'Ice Cream' was the first, then 'Masquerade'…"  
  
"Yeah, I read those," Arnold remembered. "I liked them. What are the others?"  
  
Helga ticked them off on her fingers. "'One Red Shoe,' 'Four-Letter Words,' 'Love Affairs,' and 'Poems From A Little Pink Book.'" She hugged her knees to her. "The one I'm working on now doesn't have a title yet."  
  
"It sounds wonderful," Arnold said, looking far away. "Writing, that is. You were good even when we were little."  
  
"Your life sounds wonderful," Helga contradicted. At the look he gave her she laughed. "Current imprisonment aside, of course. I mean…adventure, exotic places, legendary treasures…"  
  
Arnold grinned, his eyes lighting up with boyish excitement. "Yeah, it's not bad. I remember this one time…" He launched into a vivid tale of adventure, near-death experiences, and hairsbreadth chances. Helga told him all about her writing, and they talked, as the sun moved across the sky. She could feel Arnold opening up, becoming more human, less a scared, starved animal, and it relieved her. If Arnold had lost his hope, his basic faith in human goodness, if there was no foil for her own cynicism and hardness…well, who could believe in the good in people if Arnold couldn't?  
  
Finally they drifted to the subject of their old classmates.  
  
"So Gerald tells me Rhonda has her own show?" Arnold asked. Helga rolled her eyes.  
  
"God, yes, she's impossible to get away from. She's all over MTV constantly with this whole 'Music Style' thing, where she pulls a Joan Rivers on celebrities and talks to fashion designers about how plaid is the new orange and pink is the new black, or whatever. You know how she is." She launched into her best Rhonda imitation. "Hello, I'm Rhonda Wellington- Lloyd, and today we'll be talking about Madonna, and her uncanny ability to never grasp that inventiveness and individuality are only second to a twenty-two inch waist."  
  
Arnold laughed. "You two always had a weird relationship."  
  
Helga shrugged. "Can you blame us? We ruled the school together. You were our leader, but everyone listened to me and Rhonda." She smiled, remembering. "She had me on the show once. She pulled out all these old pictures of me from when we were little—it was humiliating. Fortunately, I had some of her fashion faux-pass with me, thanks to Kodak, so we broke even."  
  
"She didn't show the dress with the sneakers?" Arnold asked, all mock concern. "And that bow, that big pink bow that you wore all through elementary and middle school. I always liked that bow," he remembered, looking thoughtful.  
  
"I know," Helga said softly, reaching up to touch her hair as if it were still there.  
  
Silence fell over them again. Again, Arnold was the one to break it. "Do you still talk to Phoebe?" he asked her.  
  
Helga shook her head. "We sort of dropped off in college. I was in Stanford, you know, and she was all the was over in Cambridge. I think Gerald discouraged her from really working at keeping in touch with me. I don't think he ever really trusted me. Not that I blame him…I was pretty awful to him in school. Still, I'd never try and keep Phoebe from something that made her happy, and he made her happy. I'm glad for her, anyway." Something very sad settled in her as she thought of her best friend, her veritable lifeline to the world of the living for almost fifteen years. Their growing apart had been just as much her fault as Phoebe's or Gerald's, she realized.  
  
"I still can't believe they got married," Arnold said.  
  
"I know," Helga agreed. "Who would've thought that discreet glances over the punch bowl at Rhonda's parties would've blossomed into real love?"  
  
He laughed. "You really are a poet," he said, growing thoughtful again. "Gerald went to MIT to be close to her. I think that must be nice…to have someone who knew you as a child, who loved you at your most awkward and insecure."  
  
Helga didn't answer. Night had fallen, and she shivered, suddenly cold.  
  
"It gets chilly here at night," Arnold informed her, noticing the shiver. "Especially alone." There was something hollow in his voice on the last word.  
  
Helga looked at him through lowered lashes. "We could huddle together to stay warm," she suggested. Inwardly, she was shocked at the coyness in her voice. Was she…flirting? With Arnold? *Her* Arnold? It was too weird, to bizarre to be flirting with her childhood love in an Egyptian jail.  
  
He met her eyes and she was glad of the growing dark that hid her sudden blush, as pink as her old bow that he had liked so much. "Believe me, Helga, I don't mind," he teased. Where was the Arnold she knew, the bashful and somehow innocent one, even after he had lost his virginity to that she-devil, Lila?  
  
He lay down and gently patted the stone floor next to him. Well, as long as he was inviting her… Helga scooted over and lay down next to him, the coolness of the stone a sharp contrast to the warmth of his bare, tan skin so close to her. They weren't actually touching, but his heat radiated outward from him.  
  
Suddenly a surge of bravery coursed through her veins, and she edged closer, so that she was actually touching him. She stifled a grin as she felt his body flush, heating at her contact. *This* was the shy boy she remembered! Embarrassed even though only their shoulders and upper arms were touching. It was a strange way to relate to him, sexually…it had never been in their encounters before. Of course it hadn't been there when they were children…and though she of course had been attracted to him in adolescence, once the hormones kicked in, all of the middle- and high- schoolers she had known, herself and Arnold included, had been too awkward and uncertain for any kind of sexual relationship. To play this game, one she had played with many men, but none with the stakes as high or the emotions as strong, was interesting and exciting. But now was not really the time, not this first night. God knows they'd be here for a while yet.  
  
"Good night, Arnold," she murmured.  
  
"Good night, Helga," he whispered back.  
  
They lay like that for a while in silence. Helga stared upwards at the ceiling, thinking he'd gone to sleep. It was then that she let her doubts surface, and they hit her like a ton of bricks. What was she going to do? Rescue was too much to hope for. And she'd never accept Eddie's proposal. Especially now that she knew Arnold didn't like him. Anyone Arnold didn't like was on her list immediately.  
  
Could they break out from within? It seemed hopeless. And where would they go, with no money, no friends, no transportation, no nothing? Was she doomed to stay here until she died?  
  
She began to cry softly, as the first pangs of hunger hit her. She didn't mean to be selfish, she really didn't…but she didn't want to die here, didn't want to grow old and ugly here, dirty and hungry and cold. Arnold was here, and that would have made it alright in any other situation…but she couldn't bear to see him suffer, and he was suffering badly, she knew. She, more than any other, knew when Arnold was not himself. This Arnold was hungry and cold and tired too, and he was being tortured on top of it all.  
  
She felt Arnold's strong arms go around her, pulling her close. "Shh…" he whispered, holding her tightly. "It's okay."  
  
"No, it's not," she sobbed, crying harder now that she didn't have to hide it. She'd always had a tendency towards the hysterical. "I'm so scared…"  
  
"Shh…" he whispered again, soothingly. He smoothed her hair and kissed the top of her head. "I'm scared, too. But I'm not half so scared as I was before you came."  
  
He held her as she cried herself out, as she let go of all the fear and angry and sorrow that had been building up inside of her since her kidnapping, and before that, even. He held her as, exhausted, she drifted off to sleep, her eyes still red and puffy from crying. And when he was sure that she was sound asleep, Arnold cried too.  
  
  
  
  
  
Aww…I wish I could find a guy like Arnold. Maybe without the head, though…this story is going places, man. The really weird stuff is gonna start happening in the next chapter, I think. Some new characters…and Eddie gets a little pissed…Let me know what you think! 


	4. Anger

Author's Note: And I'm back again! Hmmm…maybe I should make my installments fewer and further between…I'm not making you work for this at all. Nah, just kidding…  
  
Disclaimer: Me no = Craig. Sorry.  
  
  
  
Part IV  
  
"Anger"  
  
Helga awoke to the sounds of the bolt sliding open, and Arnold shifting gently underneath her. She opened her eyes, blinking owlishly as the door opened and Eddie walked in.  
  
He looked down at Arnold and Helga, nestled like spoons against each other. "Well, well, well," he said dryly, with faint surprise. "You two certainly hit it off."  
  
Helga realized how it must look—the two of them curled up together, Arnold without a shirt, Helga herself in that ridiculously ornamental cocktail dress. She tugged on the hemline, trying to pull it down over her thighs a little more, while she kept up a cool front.  
  
"Oh, Arnold and I go way back," she told Eddie casually, sitting up and taking Arnold's hand. "Didn't you know we grew up in Brooklyn together? I've known him since I was three."  
  
Eddie's eyebrows shot up. "It is a small world, isn't it?"  
  
Arnold edged his head into Helga's lap, obviously enjoying baiting Eddie just as much as Helga did. "Tiny. Miniscule, even."  
  
"Well, I'm dreadfully sorry, Helga dearest, but your old chum Arnold has a meeting with a blacksnake whip," Eddie said, looking almost apologetic.  
  
Helga pouted coyly. "Oh, you wouldn't do that to me, would you, Eddie? Just when Arnold and I are catching up on old times?" She lifted her eyes to his brown ones, challenging him.  
  
He bowed to necessity, knowing that this was not the time to oppose her. "I certainly would not, love. Well, then, I bid you good day. Arnold."  
  
Arnold gave him a cheery wave. "Toodles, Eds."  
  
"My darling."  
  
Helga winked. "Bye, Eddie."  
  
Eddie walked out of the cell with the same false smile on his face, and the guards closed the door and bolted it behind him. The minute it was closed, the smile vanished. He pulled the guards towards him and lowered his voice.  
  
"Watch them," he hissed through gritted teeth. "If anything…*happens*…notify me immediately. I will not have him stealing my treasure and my beloved both." With that, he marched off, his expensive shoes clicking on the stone floor.  
  
Inside the cell, Helga and Arnold were blissfully unaware of their increased surveillance. "You know, I think I could get to like having you around," Arnold said, obviously delighted with her avoidance of his punishment for the day.  
  
"Oh, you could, could you?" Helga replied archly, running her fingers through his hair absentmindedly. Cowlicks like fields of yellow corn… "Well, don't get used to it. I think I'll be going in a few days."  
  
"Oh? Just going to catch a plane out?"  
  
"Yeah, that seems about right. You think I should just ask Eddie when it's convenient for him for me to leave?"  
  
Arnold laughed. "Why not? He's an amiable guy. He oughta let you go whenever you want."  
  
"Oh, yeah, you two certainly get along well," she replied teasingly. There was something comforting about sitting there, his head in her lap, playing with his hair. It was like they were no longer in a jail in the middle of a foreign country…like they were just two young people enjoying each other's company…like they were a couple, almost. And there was something wildly terrifying and comfortably homey about Arnold, as always—the intense passion of a love she had borne for so many years coupled with everything good in her childhood. He was her beginnings and her present…and even now, when her future seemed desperately uncertain, he was that, too. Even if her future was just to be an extension of her present for the rest of her life.  
  
Arnold began to recite something. After a moment, she realized what it was…one of her poems. But it wasn't taunting, the way Eddie's recitation had been. It was flattering, exciting that he'd enjoyed one of her poems enough to remember it this well.  
  
I dreamed of you last night  
  
Dreamt you could make it right  
  
I begged you not to go away  
  
And in my dream, you longed to stay  
  
But wandered off into the night  
  
And maybe if I'd known  
  
That you'd leave me alone  
  
I wouldn't have been so aloof  
  
I would've tried to tell the truth  
  
But now, at last, I've finally grown  
  
And now, I can confess  
  
My secret laid to rest  
  
Of all the lovers in my bed  
  
And all the dreams inside my head  
  
It was you I loved the best  
  
"It was you I loved the best," Arnold repeated softly, looking up into Helga's eyes. "That was my favorite one, I think."  
  
"I like that one," Helga agreed, unable to tear herself away from his eyes. They were hard to read, upside down like this. Arnold had always worn his heart on his sleeve, but now she couldn't quite make out his feelings.  
  
Arnold sat up, abruptly. "Helga…I need to tell you something. Because…it's not fair to you not to know this."  
  
"What?" Helga asked, concerned. Arnold stood up and began pacing the cell, his brow furrowed as if he was trying to figure something out. Suddenly he came over to her and held out his hands to pull her to her feet.  
  
She let him pull her up, but he didn't let go. There was something intense and earnest in his eyes, something like the desperation he had gone for the water with, but more pained.  
  
"Have you ever heard a song?" he asked. His voice was soft, low and so intense that she didn't miss a word. "One song that from the moment you hear it, it feels like you could have written it, if you only had the talent. Like the music is just…like Rumpelstiltskin spinning straw into gold, it's spinning your feelings into notes that everyone can hear. And the words are…are every thought you ever had."  
  
Helga nodded slowly. It was hard to concentrate, with him looking at her like that and gently squeezing her hands, as if what he was trying to say was so important, so vital that he couldn't keep still.  
  
"And sometimes it's not even really like the words reflect your life, but they're still you…not the you that everyone knows, but the you that only you yourself see…the one that really understands you. Do you know what I mean?"  
  
Helga knew exactly what he meant. But all she could manage was a soft "…yeah…" and she knew that wasn't enough.  
  
He looked frustrated, drained of inspiration. "Look, Helga, what I'm trying to say is…" He sighed. "Seeing you again, now that I…" Their faces were now only inches away, and he tried again. "Helga, I need to tell you that…"  
  
"…Yes?" she whispered. His eyes were so close that she felt she was sinking into a green forest pool.  
  
"You're…" He trailed off. With an almost rough abruptness, as if words had suddenly failed him, he leaned forward and kissed her.  
  
His lips were dry and his breath tasted like dried fruit, but it didn't matter. It was the most perfect kiss that Helga had ever been one half of, more than any other man in this hemisphere or the next, more than the little boy she'd kissed so long ago on a quiet stage. His kisses tasted like sunshine, something poetic that only she understood.  
  
He broke away, his chest heaving, two red spots burning in his cheeks. "I'm sorry…" he whispered, looking almost defeated.  
  
She pulled him towards her roughly. No one ever accused Helga Geraldine Pataki of being a gentle, tender kisser. "Please…" she murmured, bringing her lips up to his, satisfying a hunger for him that had been lying insatiated for twenty long years.  
  
This time he wrapped his arms around her crushingly, kissing her frantically, as if any moment she might be taken away from him. Fat chance, Helga thought as she tightened her arms around his neck. We're gonna be here for a long time. Then she forgot to think and just lost herself in Arnold's embrace.  
  
It seemed all the more cruel when rough hands suddenly forced them apart.  
  
A guard yanked back on her shoulders, ripping her out of Arnold's embrace. She wanted to cry out for him, run back into his arms, but she was held fast by the guard. She bit her tongue to keep from calling Arnold's name.  
  
Another guard held a struggling Arnold. Eddie walked into the cell two more guards behind him, his eyes cold. "I knew it," he said darkly. He looked at Helga. "Why? Why, my love? And with…this?" he finished, sneering at Arnold.  
  
"I was never promised to you!" Helga spat. "You kidnapped me! I never came here of my own free will! You have no right to demand anything of me!" she raged at him, trying to free herself from the guard's strong grip.  
  
"Helga, Helga, Helga," said Eddie in an oily, eerily calm voice. "This…he is nothing. I can give you everything. Riches, prestige, power…"  
  
"I had all that on my own, thanks," Helga snapped. "This is the twenty- first century. I'm not a concubine you can buy. And Arnold? He's more than you'll ever be. He's brave, he's wise, he's kind…you're a lying, cowardly snake."  
  
Eddie's eyes narrowed. "Whip him," he commanded, his voice snapping with anger, his eyes still boring into Helga's. She was startled at first, thinking he was talking to her, but then she saw the guards respond. One drove his fist into Arnold's stomach, making him double over in pain. The one who had been holding Arnold shoved him to the ground and placed his booted footed on the back of Arnold's neck, allowing him to rise to his hands and knees and then stopping him there. The last guard handed the one who had punched Arnold a long blacksnake whip.  
  
Helga watched in horror as the guard raised the whip over his head. With a sickening crack he brought it down across Arnold's back. Arnold jerked in pain, and a line of red appeared over yesterday's wounds. She saw him grit his teeth, and knew he was determined not to cry out.  
  
"Keep going," Eddie ordered. "Until he breaks."  
  
The horror of that suddenly hit home to Helga, as the lash went down a second time. Arnold wouldn't break. He wouldn't cry out, he wouldn't beg for mercy, he wouldn't let them triumph over his spirit. Which meant that they would whip him…until he died. While she watched. They would kill him…to punish her.  
  
The lash cracked a third time. Before Helga knew what she was doing, she elbowed her captor hard in the solar plexus and stomped down hard on his instep. He released her, and before anyone could react, she ran in to block the whip on its fourth downward stroke.  
  
The lash coiled around her wrist, biting into the pale, sensitive skin. It stung, so sharply it brought tears of pain to her eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. Uncoiling the whip in one smooth motion, she turned and kicked the guard who was holding Arnold down with his foot. She aimed for his stomach, but missed and hit too low. He doubled over, clutching his groin in agony.  
  
A rush of energy ran through Helga. She was Helga G. Pataki again, Queen of P.S. 118, Goddess of the Playground Bullies. Arnold scrambled to his feet behind her, backing towards the wall. She could see his face out of the corner of her eye, gray with pain, but smiling faintly.  
  
She cracked the whip in front of her, warning Eddie and his other three guards back. "Just a warning," she glowered, feeling herself hum with power. "You harm one hair on his head and I don't care how many bullets you fill me with, I will be proud to serve you your genitals on a plate."  
  
Eddie looked like he was wrestling with himself over something. Suddenly a smile came down over his glare. "Brilliant!" he said, half to himself. He spread his hands. "Helga, you've impressed me. I won't touch your friend. Really. I give my word."  
  
Helga raised an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to trust the word of my kidnapper?"  
  
"Touché, Helga. Touché." His eyes flickered away from her for a second, and Helga grew wary. "But I still have my trump card left to play."  
  
"What's that?" Helga wanted to know, still suspicious. A small noise from Arnold behind her made her turn her head, still keeping her body and the whip forward.  
  
The guard she had kneed in the groin had recovered, and was now holding a gun to Arnold's raw back. Inwardly she cursed. How could she have let this slip? It was all going right for a minute there…  
  
"Here's the deal," Eddie informed her. "I can't have you staying here. I will relocate you to another jail some distance away, until such time as you decide to accept my former proposal, which still stands. Arnold will remain here, unharmed as relates to you. Go without a fight, and he will be fine. Resist, and he dies. It's your choice."  
  
What could she do? Arnold's life was the most important thing. Helga turned and faced Arnold.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, searching in his green eyes for something, any sign that he forgave her for this…desertion. "I can't let them kill you. I…I tried."  
  
He stared back at her, standing boldly upright despite his obvious pain, his head held high. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. She lifted her hand and touched his cheek, gently, tenderly.  
  
Turning back to Eddie, she lifted the whip that was still in her hands. Firmly, decisively, she grabbed it near the base and snapped the whip part from the handle with a loud crack. Throwing the pieces to the ground, she walked towards the guards.  
  
One of them produced a chain from somewhere and swiftly, brusquely, ran it through the rings on her manacles, chaining her wrists together. Eddie turned and walked away, the guards following him, one pulling Helga by her chain like a dog on a lead. She turned and looked one last time at Arnold, standing like a statue in the middle of the floor as they closed and bolted the door on him.  
  
They walked down the hall, past countless cells, towards a flight of stairs. Helga was led up the stairs in silence, neither speaking a word to her captors nor receiving any from them. They walked out the doors of the jail and towards a truck, where Helga was unceremoniously loaded into the back. One guard got into the driver's seat, while Eddie took the passenger side, and they drove away in a cloud of dust that made Helga's eyes water.  
  
Helga remembered the number that had been on the door of the cell. 118. Well, if that wasn't Fate, what was? She stared out the open back of the truck, ignoring the irritation of dust in her eyes, memorizing the path they took, the road back to him. Yes, she had gone along with Eddie's deal…for now. But something had changed, with Arnold's kiss and Eddie's threat. No more ineffectual poet. She was Helga G. Pataki again, for better or for worse, and no one told her what to do or held her down.  
  
So long, Arnold—for now, she thought, allowing herself to smile as the jail receded into the Egyptian marketplace. I'll be seeing you soon.  
  
  
  
  
  
The end. No, I wouldn't do that to you guys. Ooh, here's the action. Well, a glimpse of it. Just wait till I get started. Oh, there's more to come, just you wait. I have plans for our favorite couple, muahahahaha*coughchokehack*hahaha! 


	5. Betrayal

Author's Note: Wow, this story is really flowing. It's so much fun to write! And thank you all so much for your reviews…I really can't tell you how much I appreciate it.  
  
Disclaimer: Yeah, you know the drill. It ain't mine. (BTW, Eddie, Katie, Sam, Raoul, Renault, and the poem in the last chapter ARE mine, though, so paws off, lol.)  
  
  
  
Part V  
  
"Betrayal"  
  
Helga's new prison was very different from the old. It was as dank and musty and uncomfortable as the other, but where the first had had private stone cells with two prisoners, tops, this had larger cells, closed off only by stout vertical bars, with three or four prisoners to a cell, complete with benches that seemed to double as beds. She felt eyes upon her as she was led in, heard various prisoners cursing at Eddie in dozens of different languages.  
  
They stopped at a cell with two men and one woman in it. "Put her in here for now," Eddie told the guard. The guard produced a ring of keys and opened the door to the cell, throwing Helga in roughly. Eddie gave her a little wave, and they were off.  
  
Helga pulled herself to her feet and brushed herself off. "Well, that wasn't fun," she said brightly. She was hungry, sore, and tired, but somehow, she wasn't beaten. Not yet.  
  
One of the men stood up and walked over to her. "How do you do? I'm Sam." His voice was clipped and cultured, as if he was an American who'd been living abroad for some time.  
  
"Helga. Helga…Pataki," Helga replied, using her old last name on a whim.  
  
"Nice to meet you, Helga. This is my wife, Katie."  
  
Helga shook hands with Katie. "Hi. Nice to meet you." Sam and Katie appeared to be in their early to mid-forties, and Helga wondered what such a nice looking couple could have done to land themselves in a place like this. Sam had clearly once been a powerful man, and was still tall and broad-shouldered, with unruly graying hair. Katie was small and delicate, with darker hair and a kind smile.  
  
"This is Raoul," Sam continued, gesturing to the third prisoner. "He doesn't talk much." Raoul was very large and very silent. Unfazed, Helga marched over and held out a hand.  
  
"Hi, Raoul, I'm Helga." Raoul blinked slowly at her, then held out a meaty paw for her to shake. Helga was astonished at the power in his grip.  
  
"So, what are you doing here, Helga?" Katie asked in a soft voice. Sighing gustily, Helga launched into her story of woe.  
  
"…so my cellmate turned out to be an old friend of mine from when I was a kid. Who knew, right? And we k…" Helga trailed off, blushing. "Eddie got jealous, for some stupid reason, and moved me here. And that's my story."  
  
"That's appalling!" Sam declared.  
  
"Disgusting!" Katie agreed. Even Raoul looked mortified.  
  
"What about you?" Helga asked the older couple. "I mean…no offense, but you look like you could be one of my friends' parents. How did you get into a jail all the way out here?"  
  
Sam shrugged. "Oh, you know how it is. You speak out against a dictator of a small third-world country, you get branded a political criminal…next thing you know, you spend five years of your life passed around from jail to jail."  
  
"Well, it wasn't quite that simple," Katie amended. Helga laughed.  
  
"The concise edition is good enough for me," she said. What kind of crazy luck was this? Two jail cells, four wonderful cellmates. Of course, as nice as these three were, they couldn't hold a candle to Arnold…  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Arnold stood there for a long time after his door had been bolted behind him. What a change. She was the trusting one, now, and he was the cynic. But his instincts about people had always been sound.  
  
Sure enough, after some time, the door opened, and Niles walked in. He displayed none of the oily smoothness he had put on for Helga—now he was all fury. He planted himself in front of Arnold.  
  
"Think you've won, don't you?" he asked bitterly. "Think you've gotten off scot-free? Do you think she's saved you?"  
  
Arnold didn't answer, but remained looking straight ahead. He knew from experience that nothing enraged Niles more than his own impotence, his inability to control Arnold.  
  
"Answer me!" Niles shouted, shoving Arnold back, flecks of his spit flying onto Arnold's face. Arnold stepped back with the shove, but stayed standing upright, his head held high.  
  
"I don't think you understand this, prisoner," Niles said scathingly. "This is your last chance. Where is the Lotus? Tell me!"  
  
No response. Niles stared at Arnold's unmoving determination for a long time before making his decision.  
  
"Fine," he spat, and the words were sheer bile. "Suit yourself. They tell me you won't break. That you never cry out, no matter how hard they flay you, that you won't even after all this time, and much more will simply harden you to physical pain. Fine. And now, my Helga…you shall not have her. You shall not even have her memory."  
  
Arnold's face didn't change, but inside he was reeling. Could this mean…would they actually…?  
  
Niles' face curled into a cruel sneer. "I'm afraid we can't offer you a phone call," he said in mock apology. "But you can write one last letter." He handed a pen and a sheet of paper to Arnold. "I'll make sure that she gets it." With that, he turned and marched out of the cell, letting the guards closed and bolt the door behind him.  
  
Arnold sank to the ground as if all the air had been suddenly knocked out of him. One last letter… Staring at the blank sheet of paper, he knew it, as innately as he knew that the sun was warm and the sky was blue.  
  
He had just been sentenced to death.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Helga was dreaming.  
  
She dreamt that she was nine years old again, in that terrible flood that they had had once, just before Spring Break. Or was it the time she and Arnold accidentally flooded his greenhouse? Maybe it was the ocean, down by the Jersey shore where she and Arnold had won that sand castle contest.  
  
Wherever she was, she was drowning. Everywhere she looked there were gray- green waves, looming higher than her head, threatening to pull her under and suffocate her. She heard her father's voice booming in her head…  
  
"You're a Pataki!"  
  
"Win! Win! Win!"  
  
"I hope I live to see the day you eat your words, girl!"  
  
"Pipe down, girl."  
  
"Helga, what is wrong with you?"  
  
"We Patakis don't talk about things. Sweep 'em under the rug!"  
  
"This never would've happened to Olga."  
  
"I hope I live to see the day you eat you words, girl!"  
  
"You are no daughter of mine!"  
  
"The girl is no longer a Pataki!"  
  
"Losing is unacceptable."  
  
"That's exactly the kind of attitude that breeds losers!"  
  
"I hope I live to see the day you eat your words, girl!"  
  
"We are not going to let some orphan boy and his ancestors win this!"  
  
"Put some hustle in it!"  
  
"You are no daughter of mine!"  
  
"Arnold!" Helga screamed as the waves tossed her like chaff in their angry wake. "Arnold! Help me!" A wave came crashing down on her head and she went under, swallowing sea water. She came up gasping for air and calling for Arnold. "Arnold!"  
  
A hand was shaking her awake. Helga opened her eyes and looked up into Raoul's broad, concerned face. He held out a hand as she realized where she was, and helped her to her feet. She was bitterly cold.  
  
She glanced across the cell, where Sam and Katie were staring at her, strangely quiet. Over the past two days she had shared a cell with them they had always been gregariously friendly, chatty and helpful. But now…they were silent, and looking at her as if she had done something to incredulous to believe. "Are you alright?" she asked.  
  
They glanced at each other, then laughed nervously. "I…I suppose we should be asking you that," Sam said after a pause. "It's just…you were calling out for an 'Arnold' in your sleep."  
  
Helga blushed, but apparently the look on her face showed that she didn't understand the significance for them, because Katie elucidated.  
  
"Arnold was our son's name," she explained.  
  
Helga's brow furrowed. "Was?"  
  
"Well, is…or maybe…I don't know," Katie said, looking rather helpless.  
  
"We haven't seen him in twenty-one years," Sam clarified.  
  
Helga froze. No, it couldn't be. The world wasn't that small… "Tell me about it," she said, her voice wobbling.  
  
"I'm an archaeologist, and Sam is a doctor," Katie began. "We traveled all over the world. We settled down when we had Arnold, but when he was two, we got a call from an old friend. Some people needed our help, so we flew to them, and found ourselves unable to return. We couldn't get out of there for years…we couldn't even contact anyone. There was a horrible dictator, who shut off all communication with the outside word, and we couldn't just leave the people there to him. They depended on us.  
  
"We managed to stay out of jail until about five years ago, but then the dictator decided we were too outspoken and democratic to be free, so he locked us up. Like Sam said, we've been tossed around ever since, and we finally wound up here."  
  
Helga's mouth had gone dry. This was worse…or better…or something very much stranger than seeing Arnold again. Even without having been with Arnold at all…but before jumping to conclusions…  
  
"Did you…" Her voice gave out. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Did you by any chance leave Ar—your son in Brooklyn, at a boarding house?"  
  
Katie and Sam looked up in surprise. "Y-Yes…" Katie said. "How did you…?"  
  
"The Sunset Arms?"  
  
Sam nodded. "But how…?"  
  
Helga's jaw dropped. Here it was, this was proof! Now that she looked at them, there was that familiarity, that sense of something she had known and loved her whole life that made her so comfortable around them.  
  
"Your Arnold is my Arnold!" she said.  
  
"Your what?" Sam asked, bewildered.  
  
Helga tried to explain, but the words tumbled all over each other in her haste. "I've known him my whole life…gave me his umbrella…lives with his grandparents…here, in the other jail…"  
  
She felt a heavy hand rest on her shoulder. She looked up to see Raoul giving her a look. A smile crept across her face.  
  
"Okay, from the beginning? I know your son." Katie and Sam's eyes widened. "I've known him my whole life. I met him when I was three years old. We went to school together until college, when he went to NYU and I went to Stanford. He became an archaeologist after college, and I didn't see him after graduation until a few days ago, when he showed up in my cell…or I guess I showed up in his…"  
  
"You mean…your friend? The one Niles was jealous of? That was…Arnold? Our Arnold?" Katie asked. She reached out a trembling hand and Helga took it. "Oh, how I wish I could see him…tell me about my son, Helga. What's he like?"  
  
"Arnold? He's…wonderful," Helga said slowly. She smiled to herself. "He was the bright point of my childhood, the finest person I ever knew. He's more honest than…than anyone. I've never heard him tell a lie, and I've known him all my life. He's kind…the first time I met him, he gave me his umbrella because it was raining and I was cold and scared and alone. He was only three years old."  
  
She sighed, remembering why she had loved Arnold all those years. "He helped so many people…the Pigeon Man, and Coach Wittenberg, and Monkey Man…you have no idea who any of these people are, do you?" she realized, laughing. "The people no one else would help…he reached out to them. He stopped them from tearing down a huge tree in our neighborhood, he saved the Circle Theater, he cleaned up Gerald Field. He got our butcher elected councilman. He's the best friend of Dino Spumoni, the singer, because of all the times he's helped him. He reunited one of the boarders with his daughter—I helped a little with that," she remembered, smiling a little. "I guess he knew what it felt like, to not have your parents."  
  
She gasped, covering her mouth. "I'm so sorry…I didn't mean…"  
  
"It's alright," Sam said. "Please, go on."  
  
She nodded. "He's kind to animals…he freed a giant turtle from the zoo and let this huge fish go and I don't know what else. He always helped all of us through school. He's wise…we always went to him for advice. He always knew just what to do, and he never seemed to mind helping us. I guess we never tried to help him back…" Suddenly she felt saddened by it all. She thought of why else Arnold was wonderful. "He was a wonderful singer, a great math student…he was class president in high school, and editor of the paper. He's an archaeologist now, a good one…he knows where the Lotus of Nefertiti is."  
  
"The Lotus of Nefertiti?" Sam interrupted. "But that's…they've been searching for that for centuries! To find it…that's an…an archaeological miracle!"  
  
"That's Arnold," Helga replied matter-of-factly. "To do something wonderful and beautiful that no one thought possible. I mean, he found good in me, there's not much he can't find…" She laughed a little, sadly. "I loved him so much as a child…I guess I still do."  
  
Suddenly the force of the realization that she had been fighting for six years hit her. "I love him," she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else. "I…I always have. I always will." It was a release, a rush of emotions that felt purging, comforting. She felt warm tears on her cheeks, freed by the storm of feeling raging inside her.  
  
Sam cleared his throat softly. She looked up at the parents of the boy she had loved her whole life. Katie opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly they heard footsteps approaching.  
  
"Renault! Entendez-vous," Eddie's voice commanded. He was talking to Captain Renault, the highest ranking official at this jail. Renault wasn't a bad sort…you got the feeling that he was just doing his job and didn't like the dirty work that Eddie forced him into. From what Helga gathered though, Renault had gotten into some trouble in France and Eddie had bailed him out, pretty much signing Renault on for life service.  
  
"Oui, monsieur?" Renault replied. Helga kept quiet, glad she knew how to speak French.  
  
"Tu connais la fille ici, Helga Geraldine?" Eddie muttered. Helga covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. They were talking about her!  
  
"Oui, monsieur."  
  
"Il y a un garcon qui elle aime dans l'autre prison." There is a boy she loves in the other jail… Helga was too intent on listening in to blush. "A coucher du soleil, ton peloton d'execution? Tu sais quoi tu dois faire." At sunset, your firing squad? You know what to do… Firing—firing squad?!?  
  
"Oui, monsieur." Eddie's footsteps receded down the hallway. Helga sat there, stunned.  
  
"What?" Sam asked, seeing her face go ashen. "What is it?"  
  
Helga didn't respond immediately. She had always had a scheming little mind and a fixed determination. She remembered with brief fondness the time she had slept behind Arnold's couch in order to protect her secret, and had to come through the ceiling of his kitchen in order to get out. It hadn't seemed very funny at the time…  
  
A rudimentary plan formed in her mind. She stood up, smoothed out her dress and hair, and went to the bars of the cell. "Capitaine Renault," she called out.  
  
Renault came into view, a halfway-handsome man in his mid-thirties. He looked displeased about something, and guilty. "Yes, mademoiselle?" he asked gruffly. He usually wasn't this polite with the prisoners, but he really wasn't a bad guy, and he looked like he felt sorry for her. Helga knew why, but masked it.  
  
"S'il vous plait, Capitaine, j'ai un petit chose pour demander de toi," she said politely. Please, Captain, I have a little thing to ask of you… She could tell that her cellmates and all the prisoners in the near vicinity were watching her. Good. An audience always improved her performances. She remembered Jacques at the airport.  
  
Renault brightened. Her accent was perfect, she knew, and to have a pretty girl speak his native language to him must be like a breath of home, the land he could never return to. Inwardly she smiled, a cold, cobra-like smile. Arnold might have a rigid code of honor. She had never had that luxury. She would stoop to anything…anything…for him.  
  
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, mademoiselle?" What is it?  
  
She forced herself to blush fetchingly, feeling only a little guilty as she twisted him around her finger. "C'est tres embarrassante, mais…" It's very embarrassing, but… She lowered her voice. "J'ai peur que je suis enceinte." I'm afraid I'm pregnant.  
  
He looked alarmed—with reason, of course. "Tu es sur?" Are you sure?  
  
She shook her head. "Non. Ca c'est la raison que je voudrais aller chez docteur." No. That's why I want to go to a doctor.  
  
Now he looked truly sorry. "Mais mademoiselle, tu ne peux pas partir. Je vais dire a Monsieur Niles…" But miss, you can't leave. I will tell Mr. Niles…"  
  
She stopped him, her voice alarmed. "Non! C'est trop embarrassante! Et…il va etre fache…" she finished, hanging her head. No! It's too embarrassing! And…he will be angry…  
  
Renault seemed at a loss. "C'est vrai. Je ne sais pas…" True. I don't know…  
  
Helga looked up suddenly, as if a brilliant idea had just struck her. "Peut-etre…si *tu* me prends?" she asked, looking sweetly at him through the bars. Maybe…*you* could take me?  
  
He was obviously torn between wanting to help her, knowing her situation and what Eddie was planning, and following orders and saving his own hide. "Oh, mademoiselle, je ne peux pas…" Oh, miss, I can't…  
  
She lowered her gaze. "D'accord. Je comprend…" It's okay. I understand…  
  
Suddenly Renault seemed to make a decision. "Attende." Wait. He glanced up and down the hall, and, seeing no one, pulled out a ring of keys. Swiftly, he unlocked the cell and opened it slightly. "Vite." Quickly. He beckoned her out of the cell. In his nervousness, he dropped the keys with a raucous jangle, and bent down to pick them up.  
  
Holding the bars of the gate, she shook her head. "Je suis desole, Capitaine Renault…" she whispered. I am sorry, Captain Renault…  
  
With that, she pushed hard on the gate, sending the metal bars into Renault's head. He was knocked off of his haunches and lay on the ground, unconscious.  
  
Helga gingerly opened the gate all the way and ran out to check the hall. There were still no guards to be seen. What a stroke of luck! Quickly, she bent down and took Renault's pulse. It was beating strongly—he had just gotten a bad bump. She set to drag him into the cell.  
  
"Raoul! Give me a hand!" she whispered. He lumbered out of the cell, seeming completely unsurprised by what had just happened, and lifted the unconscious Renault as if he were a rag doll. Carrying him into the cell, he set him down on a bench with a surprising gentleness.  
  
If Raoul was unquestioning, Katie and Sam were shocked. "Helga…what…? Why…?"  
  
Helga paused a minute before explaining. "Raoul, stand guard. If anyone comes, knock them out. If several come at once, we get back in the cell, we close the gate, and we hide Renault and the keys." Raoul nodded and walked out into the hall.  
  
Helga bent over Renault's body, undressing him with competent hands. "Eddie was telling Renault to get his firing squad ready by sunset. For Arnold." She removed Renault's heavy silver watch and glanced at it. Five o' clock. They had two hours. Hopefully, that would be enough. She put the watch on her own wrist, above the manacle. It ought to be useful.  
  
She was surprised that Katie and Sam didn't gasp again. Instead, they seemed to simply steel themselves. "What do you want us to do?" Katie asked.  
  
She had gotten Renault stripped down to his underwear by now. "Sam, put this on," she commanded, tossing him the uniform. He pulled off the decrepit old shirt and pants he had been wearing and began to get into the uniform.  
  
Helga, meanwhile, was rooting through the accessories. Soon she found what she was looking for—a chain lead, like the one that they had used to bring her here. "We—meaning Katie, Raoul, and I—will put this on. Sam, you will march us out of here like you're taking us somewhere. You don't look much like an officer, but the helmet should help."  
  
Sam was surprisingly fast, and was soon fully garbed. Except for one thing.  
  
"Give me your hands," ordered Helga. Looking perplexed, he held them out. Helga searched her keys until she found the one she was looking for—a small silver one. Swiftly, she unbuckled Sam's manacles.  
  
He stared at his bare wrists, pale and sickly-looking compared to the rest of his arms. Incredulously, he rubbed his wrists. "I can't believe it…" he whispered, his voice hoarse.  
  
Helga looked up at Katie. "I wish I could unlock yours now, but it'll ruin the escape. You'll have them off soon, I promise."  
  
"I believe you," Katie said, smiling at her.  
  
Sam lifted his chin. "I'm ready," he declared.  
  
"Good," Helga said. "Raoul?" He returned to the cell, and Sam quickly chained the three of them together—Helga, then Katie, then Raoul. He closed the door, locking a still-unconscious Renault in the cell. Then, pulling out Renault's gun, he aimed it at Raoul's back and began to march them out of the jail.  
  
Helga felt the other prisoners' eyes on them as they left. She wished she could free them all, but she knew that there was no time. They couldn't all be lovable silent giants or the long-lost parents of her childhood friends. Some had to be real criminals, and she didn't have time to put them all on trial. So she tried not to look at the faces that would remain with her as long as she lived.  
  
"Incidentally, Helga, where are we going?" Katie whispered from behind her.  
  
Helga smiled to herself, her eyes far away and reckless. "We're going to save your son," she replied.  
  
  
  
Ooh…the plot thickens. And it'll get even more complicated, I promise! Tell me what you think! 


	6. Rescue

Author's Note: Sorry about the delay, but I finally got it out…I would have written it earlier, but I was sick and dying and delirious…but anyway, here it is, and me hope you likey. BTW, yes, it is very Indiana Jones-ish, and will become more so…I had definite inspiration from good old Spielberg.  
  
Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, I don't own Hey Arnold, yadda yadda yadda…you know.  
  
  
  
Part VI  
  
"Rescue"  
  
Maybe the phenomenal luck of Arnold's youth was following Helga, because they reached the trucks outside of the jail without a mishap. There was a guard by the trucks, but a light blow from Raoul quickly put him out of commission.  
  
Inside the truck, Sam unchained the others and removed their manacles. Helga climbed up into the front with him while Raoul and Katie kept watch in the back. Sam had barely turned on the engine, however, when a higher ranking officer than the one Raoul had knocked out came around.  
  
"Hey! You aren't supposed to…" he started. Then, realizing what was happening, he turned and yelled something in Arabic. Immediately there was an uproar, and guards began pouring out of the jail.  
  
"Drive! Drive!" Helga screamed. Sam slammed his foot on the acceleration and drove off in a cloud of dust that left the guards coughing behind them.  
  
But the guards were piling into the remaining five trucks and following them. Sam passed his gun back to Raoul, who began shooting at the trucks, but they were moving fast over a bumpy road and his aim was off. The other trucks started to close in on them.  
  
"Take the wheel," Sam said suddenly to Helga.  
  
"What?" she asked, more than a little frantic.  
  
"We're heading towards a marketplace. I don't want people getting hurt. I need to get back there, and you're the only one who knows the way. Take the wheel." Sam unbuckled his seatbelt and got ready to move.  
  
Helga reached over and grabbed the steering wheel, holding the truck on course. Sam stood up as best he could in the cramped cab and let Helga slide underneath him, replacing his foot on the gas with her own. The truck slowed momentarily as she took over, then sped up again as her weight came down on the pedal. Sam clambered over her and into the back.  
  
Suddenly Helga heard a gunshot and a sharp *ping!* "What was that?" she yelled back, afraid to take her eyes off the road. She glanced at the speedometer. Ninety-five miles an hour! She didn't know these old trucks could reach those speeds!  
  
"Sam hit an engine," Katie replied, climbing in to join Helga in the cab. "He's aiming for the engines and tires. He's an incredible shot. He's also a bit reckless. I'm the steady one."  
  
Helga smiled, swerving around a chicken stand. "Arnold got a little bit of both, I think," she said.  
  
The truck that Sam had hit, now with a tire blown and engine problems, steered into the chicken stand. Trying to avoid it, a second truck swerved and hit a third with a frighteningly violent collision.  
  
"Well, that leaves two," Katie said, surprisingly calm. Helga remembered suddenly the adventure stories that Arnold's grandfather had sometimes regaled the neighborhood kids with. Of course Arnold's father would be a crack shot, his mother more levelheaded than Arnold himself. After all, look at the lives they'd had. She was suddenly fiercely angry at anyone who could put such wonderful, fiery, exciting people in jail, break their spirits like that, try to push them down. What a waste.  
  
And she was saving Arnold from that very fate—and reuniting him with his parents. She switched abruptly to joy, a thrill at the happiness she was bringing to her love.  
  
She checked her watch. Six o' clock. They had a half hour, maybe an hour, to get to Arnold's jail, sneak in, free Arnold, and sneak out. She doubted that they could accomplish an all-out jailbreak like the one they had just conducted—Arnold's jail was far more heavily guarded. She needed a plan—and she knew just who could help her.  
  
"Katie, when they execute someone around here, what do they do?" she asked the woman next to her. "What's the procedure?"  
  
Katie explained, as they sped along. They were out of the marketplace now, with two trucks remaining on their tail. They came to a narrow, winding road on the side of a rocky dune. Helga was glad she had remembered how to get back, because the last thing she wanted was to be lost in the desert.  
  
Sam took careful aim and fired. He hit the windshield of the leading truck, sending a maze of fine, hairline cracks through the glass. The driver, his vision suddenly impaired, was forced to slam on the brakes to keep from steering off the road. The truck behind him slammed into him, the force of the collision knocking both trucks down the side of the dune, the engines exploding into orange and crimson flames.  
  
Helga relaxed a little. Well, that was one thing taken care of.  
  
As the jail loomed ahead in the distance, Helga slowed to a more reasonable speed. Now to execute the sketchy plan she had come up with, aided by Katie's information. All they needed was a house…there. A low, off-white stucco building rose out of the sands. She drove up to it.  
  
George Samson hurried to answer his ringing doorbell. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he called. He opened the door.  
  
A very beautiful blond woman in a ripped, dirty black cocktail dress and no shoes stood in front of his door, looking like she hadn't showered in days, and flanked by a very, very large young man and a somewhat older man in uniform aiming a gun at his face. An older woman stood behind them. The blonde spoke.  
  
"Hi. Helga Pataki. Listen, we need some help, and we're in kind of hurry. Shower, food, and new clothing, and we'll be on our way. Care to help?" She spoke in a determined, no-nonsense tone, hands on hips, legs akimbo. George shifted his gaze to the man with the gun, whose finger tightened on the trigger.  
  
George smiled nervously. "Come right on in, Ms. Pataki!"  
  
The blonde smiled, and the four escaped prisoners walked into George Samson's house.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Helga and her companions let the house, newly washed, fed, and clothed in traditional robes that were excellent disguises. Helga smiled under her veil.  
  
"Wow, people sure are friendly when you use brute force," she said aloud. Sam and Katie laughed, looking more carefree than she had ever seen them. Cleanliness and a small snack did wonders for people deprived of life's simple pleasures for five years. Even Raoul looked more cheerful.  
  
They piled back into the truck and approached the jail. The moment they entered, they were stopped by a guard. Quickly Sam explained, as they had rehearsed, that they were a family, there to visit their cousin. The others remained silent as Sam used the rudimentary Arabic he had picked up while there to appeal to the guard.  
  
After a few minutes, the guard relented. He led them down a hall, to the cell they claimed their "cousin" was staying at. The moment they were out of sight of any other jail officials, Raoul gave the guard a light blow on the jaw that knocked him out. Helga gave her companions their orders in a low whisper.  
  
"All right, you all know what to do, right?" They nodded. "Fine. Good luck, and I'll see you on the outside, if this works."  
  
"When this works," Katie corrected. "You have to keep up hope."  
  
Sam nodded. "She's right. This will work, if we all work together on it."  
  
Helga smiled wistfully at Arnold's parents. "He is so like you," she whispered. "Thank you." Without waiting for a response, she disappeared down the hall.  
  
The plan was in motion. All they could do now was hope.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Arnold could tell by the quality of the light in his cell that it was almost sunset. He looked down at the letter in his hand. It had taken him hours to compose. There was a lot he needed to say to Helga, and he only had once chance to say it right. He folded the thin paper into one of those paper footballs, the kind they used to flick back and forth across their desks as children. He hoped she would at least see the humor in that—a football from Football Head. Luckily, the triangle that was left when he folded it was one of the only places on the paper not covered with writing. He scrawled her name on it and capped his pen, awaiting his time.  
  
He didn't have to wait long. Just as the light began to turn crimson, he heard the bolt on his cell door slide back. The door creaked open. Briefly he thought about making a run for it, but quickly scratched the idea. They would only shoot him then, and he preferred to die with dignity.  
  
"You will confess before the Father first," the guard told him as they chained his manacles together.  
  
That surprised him. "Confess?" he asked. "But I'm not Catholic."  
  
"You will confess," the guard repeated, giving him a level stare. He sighed. What was the point in arguing over his theological beliefs now, anyway? It wasn't like it would make a difference.  
  
"Who do I give this letter to?" he asked the guard, showing him the small triangular paper clenched tightly in his fist.  
  
"Give it to the Father," the guard replied shortly.  
  
Well, that simplified things. Holding his head up high, he allowed himself to be led down the hall towards his execution. He didn't see Niles anywhere, but he had a feeling the worm would pop up at the actual shooting. No way his enemy was going to miss this.  
  
He was led out onto the ground floor, past the yard where the shooting would take place. At the sight of the guards lined up and the high stone walls, the smoothly swept yellow earth and the glistening silver barrels of the guns, he felt a swooping in his stomach, a faintness, and he knew if he didn't look away he would be sick. He closed his eyes as they led him out of the sun, into a small, cool, darkened cell, where a priest in a hooded black robe waited.  
  
Suddenly it hit home to him. This was it. He would never see his grandparents again, or Gerald, or the boarders, or any of his old friends. He would never return to Brooklyn, never feel the Atlantic Ocean around his ankles or the rain on his face. He would never see the shores of America looming ahead of him, never be buried under rolling green hills. He wouldn't marry, or hear the patter of little feet, or grow old with the one he loved. If he was to be killed at sunset—why, he wouldn't even see the stars one last time. It was that last thought that saddened him, that the stars were to be taken away without him bidding them farewell.  
  
Well, at least he would be with his parents again. He had long since given up hope in their being alive, but perhaps, if there was indeed an afterlife, he would be reunited with them in it. That was the best he had to hope for.  
  
He felt them shove him gently into the cell, and he fell on his knees on the cool earth as the door closed slowly behind him. He lifted his eyes to the priest's face, obscured by the hood.  
  
"Hello, Father," he said. There was no response. Was this normal? He didn't know. He had never confessed before, and said so.  
  
"I don't really know what to say," he said quietly. "I'm sorry, but I'm not Catholic. I'm…I don't know what I am. I guess I'm agnostic. I was always raised to do good without any reward in this life or the next."  
  
There was still no response. Suddenly he remembered the letter, its corner jabbing into the palm of his hand.  
  
"Oh, I suppose I should give you this," he said, holding out the letter, both of his hands moving together because of his chains. "They told me to give it to you."  
  
The priest took the letter. The silence was making Arnold uncomfortable, and he felt he had to fill it up with some kind of explanation. "It's for a girl, an American, in the jail on the other side of town. Helga Pataki…or Helga Geraldine, she changed her name, I always forget. She's blond, thin…very beautiful…"  
  
He remembered a comment he'd made before. "I suppose you don't think that I've been good…that I have sins that I need to confess. I guess I do, but I really have tried to be good. You must have many people who tell you that they are innocent, just victims of circumstance, and I know I'm not perfect. But I've tried, I really have. Can you believe that, Father?" He knew there was a note of hysteria creeping into his voice, but he couldn't help it.  
  
The priest spoke at last. "I believe you."  
  
Arnold froze. That was no man's voice! "I…Helga?"  
  
The cloaked figure put a finger to the lips he couldn't see, then pushed back the hood enough so that he could see her face. And there she was, Helga G. Pataki, in the flesh! He was flabbergasted.  
  
"But…Helga…how did you? What did…?"  
  
She smiled. "I overheard Eddie talking about your execution. Good thing he doesn't know I speak French, right? So I broke out, with the help of some friends, and came to rescue you. You'll like my friends," she added as an afterthought, her smile turning obscure.  
  
His mind was reeling, so he settled on the last comment. "Male friends?" he asked, suddenly unreasonably jealous.  
  
She exploded with silent laughter, as if something about the question amused her and she was trying to keep quiet. "Oh, just you wait…" she giggled, trying to keep her voice down.  
  
With an effort, she got herself under control. "You'll see," she said finally, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. "Now, I brought you some food, because you'll need your strength. Eat it slowly, or I'll take it away from you." From under the voluminous priest's robe she produced a flask of water, a flask of milk, bread, cheese, and some fresh fruit. Arnold launched into the food, trying to follow orders and eat slowly.  
  
"What happened to the real priest?" he asked between mouthfuls.  
  
Helga smiled. "Oh, he's in his chambers. He was a real sweetheart. I explained the whole story to him, and he gladly agreed to let me come in his place. He'll just say that I overpowered him and he couldn't fight back because he doesn't believe in violence. Even if they don't believe him, they won't do anything to him, because they're too religious around here to hurt a man of the cloth. You're lucky you landed yourself in such a Catholic jail, not an Islamic one."  
  
Arnold nodded, drinking deeply from the milk flask. "I haven't had milk in six months," he gasped. Helga grinned.  
  
"Wait 'til you have your first Yahoo," she teased.  
  
"Mmm, Yahoo," he said, closing his eyes. "Just drink it."  
  
She laughed. "Shut up. You sound like Stinky. Now finish."  
  
"What's the plan?" he asked, polishing off the last of the dates. He felt much better, having eaten a real meal for the first time in months.  
  
She glanced at a chunky man's watch around her wrist. "In a few minutes they'll come and get you. I'll put my hood up and follow you out into the yard. I'll make the sign of the cross over you. Then Eddie," her nose wrinkled in disgust at the name, "will offer you your last request. Ask for a cigarette."  
  
His brow wrinkled in perplexity. "But I don't smoke."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Not for your enjoyment, although personally I would kill for a drag. Just…you'll see." She continued, pulling keys out of her robe. "I'm going to unlock the manacles. If you turn them around and bend your fingers down like this over them," she demonstrated, "they'll stay unlocked but won't open. When I give you the signal, just jerk your hands apart and they should open. Then, when I run, you follow me or anyone else I tell you to. I'll have three friends, a woman and two men, and I trust them with my life, and yours. So do as they say too, okay?"  
  
He nodded. "Helga, how can I ever thank you…"  
  
She put a finger on his lips. "Don't thank me, Hair Boy. How could I not save you? Now you just keep quiet and remember the plan."  
  
He nodded, enjoying the feeling of her finger on his lips. Maybe he would marry after all. Suddenly something occurred to him. "Helga, do you even know how to make the sign of the cross?"  
  
She paused, then laughed. "Oops."  
  
He shook his head in amused exasperation, then showed her. Suddenly they heard footsteps approaching. "Helga, if we don't make it…" he began.  
  
"We will make it," she replied firmly.  
  
"But if we don't…" Swiftly, he leaned forward and kissed her.  
  
As he pulled away they heard the key turning in the lock. Helga pulled her hood down over her face, making it impossible to see, let alone read. The door opened, and Arnold was jerked roughly out, remembering at the last minute to keep his hands closed over his manacles.  
  
He was led out into the yard, facing the row of guards, their rifles gleaming in the fading light. The sickness that he had felt before wasn't as bad now. He could still die, but it was better to go down fighting than to be executed for no reason except integrity—and making it with the girl Edward Niles wanted.  
  
He could sense Helga behind him now, keeping pace with the little procession. Arnold was placed in the proper position in front of the firing squad. Helga stood in front of him, lifting her head a little so that only he could see her face under the cowl, and winked as she made the sign of the cross over him. He tried not to smile back.  
  
Sure enough, Niles was there, a sinister smile on his too-perfect face. "Well, all of your pride hasn't gotten you anywhere now, has it?" he asked.  
  
Arnold didn't answer, just looked levelly back at him. Something in his gaze seemed to unsettle Niles, because he looked away. "Prepare to die, then," he warned Arnold. "Guards!" he called. "Ready!"  
  
"Don't I get a last request?" Arnold interrupted suddenly.  
  
Niles glowered. "Of course. How could I have forgotten? At ease!" he called to the guards. They lowered their rifles.  
  
"What would you like, then?" he asked Arnold. Arnold pretended to think it over.  
  
"I'd like a cigarette, if you have one, you warthog-faced buffoon," he said civilly.  
  
The comment seemed to irritate Niles for some reason, but he dug into his pocket and produced a cigarette, which he placed in Arnold's mouth.  
  
"Care to light it, you flea-bitten excuse for a human being?" Arnold asked with some difficulty, trying to keep the cigarette from falling. He could see some of the guards smirking.  
  
Niles' glare deepened, but he struck a match and lit Arnold's cigarette for him. Arnold inhaled, glad that he had let Gerald convince him into learning how to inhale when they were in high school. He let a thin stream of smoke issue from between his lips.  
  
"Satisfied?" Niles asked. Arnold nodded. "Good." He turned to the firing squad. Arnold suffered sudden misgivings—when was Helga going to implement her plan?  
  
"Ready!" Niles called out. The squad lifted their rifles to their shoulders. Arnold tried to relax. Helga was just waiting for the right opportunity, wasn't she?  
  
"Aim!" Every rifle turned to face Arnold. His stomach was doing flip- flops and he was sweating profusely. Come on, Helga, old girl, give the command, he begged internally. Still there was silence from behind him.  
  
The world suddenly seemed very small, and Arnold could see nothing but twelve rifles pointed straight at him. The blood was pounding in his ears, and he felt faint. He heard Niles' low snicker nearby. Twelve fingers tightened on twelve triggers.  
  
"Fire!"  
  
  
  
  
  
Heh heh heh…I never promised no more cliffhangers, did I? Oh, and there are more to come…*evil laughter*…R&R, if you please! 


	7. Flight

Author's Note: Finally, finally, finally, I am back! The play is over…we just did "Pippin," and it rocked so much…you wouldn't believe it. People said it was the best play that my school has done in over 25 years, and one of the original Broadway cast members was there, and the guy from the Rising Star Awards, which are these awards given to high school theater in my area, said that it was amazing. So I'm pretty happy about that. But now (hopefully) I can devote a little more time to writing this. I'm trying to get it finished before April break, but there's still a ways to go…I have plans for our beloved blonds…  
  
Taking a leaf out of some other writer's books, I'm going to respond to a few reviews personally…  
  
borg, I appreciate the apology.  
  
Chien, Houkanno Yuuhou, Ameko, just wait and see…  
  
Everyone who complained about my cliffhangers…hey, how else am I gonna keep people coming back for more? I LOVE writing cliffhangers…I know, I'm evil. If it makes you feel any better, this chapter doesn't end in quite as much of a cliffhanger.  
  
JESS, don't worry about what anyone thinks. No one is angry at you if you mess up in a play, and if they are, then they're immature and unprofessional. Trust me, people mess up all the time. It's live theater. And I'm afraid of drowning too…and I'm PETRIFIED of needles. I hate 'em. I'm almost 18 and I cry every time…I'm such a loser…  
  
DropsofJupiter, I didn't have Helga tell him because a) she's being businesslike right now, and that kind of revelation would probably make Arnold less able to follow the plan, and b) I think she appreciates the tenderness and sacredness of that kind of news, and I think she would choose to tell him on her own grounds, not while still under Eddie's control.  
  
Disclaimer: Still with the not owning of the Hey Arnold…unfortunately…  
  
  
  
Part VII  
  
"Flight"  
  
"Fire!" Arnold heard Niles yell.  
  
Click.  
  
Click? Was that what it was supposed to sound like? Arnold still felt faint. Was this what dying was like?  
  
His vision began to clear, and now he could see the guards staring in perplexity at their rifles, trying the triggers again. They were rewarded with nothing but clicks.  
  
"What the hell is going on?" Eddie asked.  
  
He suddenly heard laughter behind him, Helga's laughter. He turned to see her throw her hood back and double up with mirth.  
  
"Helga?" Niles asked, shocked.  
  
"Oh, Eddie," she chortled. "You really shouldn't leave those guns unattended. Someone just might empty them."  
  
Eddie lunged for her, but she ducked under his arms, pulling off the priest's robe and throwing it in his face. "Arnold, Katie, Raoul, now! NOW!"  
  
A lot of things happened at once. Arnold jerked his arms apart, ripping his manacles off, just as predicted. Helga grabbed the cigarette from between Arnold's lips and ducked away, pulling him towards the gate to the outside world. Eddie clawed the robe off of his head and threw it behind him. The guards lunged at them. A small figure and a large one both appeared from behind the jail building. The small one ran to open the gate, while the large one stood guard over her, knocking aside all adversaries with ease.  
  
Eddie grabbed Helga's arm, stopping her escape. Quickly, she pressed the lit end of the cigarette into his skin. He roared and dropped her arm.  
  
"Come on, Arnold!" she yelled, pulling him after her towards the now-open gate. A truck sat outside the gate, the engine running, a middle-aged man behind the wheel.  
  
"You made it!" he said as they climbed in the truck.  
  
"Not yet," she replied breathlessly. "Katie, Raoul! Hurry up!"  
  
The two robed figures ran as fast as their legs could carry them towards the truck and tumbled into the back with Arnold and Helga. The man behind the wheel gunned the engine and they blew out of there, heading towards the marketplace.  
  
"Good thing we got directions from that guy whose house we stopped at," Helga remarked. "Raoul, can you drive? I need to introduce Arnold."  
  
The large robed figure, who turned out to be an extremely large man, nodded and climbed into the front seat, switching places smoothly with the original driver, who climbed into the back. Arnold couldn't help but feel a bit perplexed. Why did Helga have to introduce him to these people but not this Raoul character? Why did this seem like such a production?  
  
And why were those two people looking at him like that?  
  
But wait…there was something familiar about them, the man with his wild, devil-may-care hair and jutting chin, the woman with her benevolent smile and oddly-shaped head…  
  
"Arnold," said Helga, and as he glanced at her he was surprised to see tears spring to her eyes, though she was smiling, "these are my dear friends Katie and Sam.  
  
"Your parents."  
  
The bottom dropped out of Arnold's stomach. His parents? They couldn't be…they were dead, they had to be dead, after all that time…and here? How could they be…no, it wasn't possible…  
  
He looked into Katie's eyes, misted with tears, and saw his own eyes. He looked at Sam and saw something of himself, something of his grandfather, all blended together in a face he only seen in pictures and faint memories…  
  
"Mom?" he whispered. "Dad?"  
  
Suddenly he was in their arms, in his parents' arms again, feeling like he was two years old and not caring in the slightest. He knew that he was crying like a baby, and he felt dampness on their cheeks and knew that they were crying, too.  
  
"Why didn't you come back? Why didn't you come home again?" he managed to gasp out, his words muffled in his father's shirtfront.  
  
"We tried…oh, my baby, we tried…" his mother sobbed.  
  
Helga smiled to herself through her tears. Her beloved Arnold was reunited with his parents, who were two of the nicest people she had ever met, despite only having known them a few days. They deserved it, especially Arnold. He had never really spoken of it, but she had known, as she had known everything about him, that he had always borne a dull ache inside without them. She wouldn't wish the pain he had felt on anyone.  
  
Then why, as she climbed into the cab next to Raoul, did she feel just a little bit jealous?  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
They returned to Cairo, where they collected Helga's belongings. Once they had reached the main hub of civilization, they had been pretty much secure from Eddie, unless they were carelessly foolish, as Helga had been when Eddie first laid his grimy hands on her.  
  
Once back in the hotel, Helga made a few quick phone calls to some friends in the states, who promised to have some local…"businessmen" make up passports for Arnold, Sam, Katie, and Raoul. All five of them seemed to share the same urge to get back to America as soon as possible.  
  
Arnold couldn't stop beaming. He was happier than Helga had ever seen him, and the knowledge that his happiness was partially thanks to her was buoying her up. But what would she do now? Somehow she felt that the story was unfinished, that the happy ending had come without tying up all the loose ends.  
  
Thinking of oneself as a loose end was rather depressing, she found.  
  
She wasn't sure where to go. Her careless tour of foreign countries was thrown all out of orbit, of course, and she had no desire to hunt for new lovers. Her declaration of love unending for Arnold had dulled somewhat. Yes, she loved him, but he surely would never return the feelings—and after years of disappointment and frustrated longing, reconciliation to unpleasant truths was easy for her.  
  
But why did he kiss you? a small, nasty little voice in her head demanded. Hope was a rather obnoxious little demon at times.  
  
Because he was scared and lonely and probably hadn't been near a woman in six months, she replied. She wasn't in the least alarmed at talking to herself. Arnold brought that old habit out of her.  
  
You don't really believe that, do you?  
  
Yes. Now shut up!  
  
She did have a small apartment in LA that she used as her home address. She figured she would return there, learn what it was like to be stationary again—maybe write more serious poems than the doggerel she had been churning out about early morning sunshine and baby oil and satin sheets. But the thought of being alone paralyzed her. She didn't know what she was afraid of, besides maybe herself and the depression being alone would bring on.  
  
And she didn't have anyone to go to—no family, no friends, just literary and celebrity acquaintances and ex-lovers, none of whom she wanted to see. Well, there was one person she would go to…Yes. She would go there.  
  
However, Katie had other things in mind.  
  
"Helga, won't you stay at the boarding house for a few days?" she asked. "I'm sure Phil and Gertie will let you stay for free—after all you've done for us, you're practically family."  
  
Helga was rather flustered. Stay at Arnold's house? She couldn't help feeling somewhat out of place, a roadblock in his family's joyous reunion.  
  
"I…I couldn't," she said, blushing. "I mean, you should probably be alone…getting to know each other…"  
  
Katie smiled. "We have the rest of our lives for that," she reminded Helga. "Please?"  
  
"I…"  
  
"I'm not sure you understand what I mean," Katie said, with a meaningful look. "I have my son back, after so long. The only thing I could think of that would be more wonderful…well, I've always wanted a daughter."  
  
The look she gave Helga suddenly reminded the younger woman that Arnold's mother knew where her heart lay. Her blush deepened as she realized what Katie was insinuating. She snuck a glance at Arnold, sitting across the aisle with his father.  
  
"But he doesn't…he would never…" she stammered, a small part of her mind realizing the irony of it all. Years ago she would have given anything for someone to tell her that Arnold felt something for her. Now she was denying it.  
  
Katie smiled again, a catlike, secretive smile. "Maybe. Maybe I don't know my son as well as you do. But please come to the boarding house?" She raised her voice a little on the last sentence, loud enough for Arnold and Sam to hear.  
  
Arnold leaned across the aisle. "You're coming to the boarding house?" he asked Helga, innocent eagerness written all over his face.  
  
She hedged. "Well…"  
  
"Please? We'd love to have you," he pleaded. Helga melted, as Katie had known she would.  
  
"All right," she said with a resigned smile. "But not for too long." She glanced at Katie, who was staring innocently out the window. What a conniving, crafty little…  
  
Helga had always known she would like Arnold's parents.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
He placed his fingers gently on the small, round burn on his arm, wincing as pain flared up, secretion oozing from the tender area. *She* had done this to him. She had betrayed him. Far worse than the stinging in his arm was the blow to his pride.  
  
But he was not stopped that easily. Oh, no. They thought they had escaped, the fools. His agents were following them right now, tracing them back to their homes. The older ones and the big one were nothing. Better to not leave too many casualties. They would be left alone.  
  
But the boy…the mistake had been in making him suffer, drawing the punishment out for too long. Of course he had wiggled through the cracks. This time there would be no loose ends. This time he would be killed on the spot. He had made sure of that.  
  
And the girl…ah, yes, the girl. The real prize in all this pain. Well, there were to be no more offers of flowers and candy, no more gentlemanly wooing. He would have what he wanted of her, the pleasure and the pain. And he would not ask before he took it.  
  
And then…then she, too, could be disposed off. For though he got his revenge, no one, woman or man, would live to boast that they had bested the king of the underworld.  
  
He touched the burn again, trembling slightly at the waves of pain that shot through him, savoring the hurt. He would return the favor soon…  
  
He smiled into the darkness, showing even white teeth in a cruel, mirthless grin. "I am waiting for you, my darling," he whispered to her, thousands of miles away. "I am waiting to make you mine."  
  
  
  
I know, I know, it's short, but the next chapter should be up soon, and I had to make this transition. The next chapter is a completely different event, and I couldn't combine its events with this chapter's, or draw this chapter out anymore. Tell me what you think (if anyone's still reading at this point)! 


	8. Home

Author's Note: Hey! I'm back in a day. Isn't it exciting? Okay, this chapter's a little longer, very emotional, very soul-searching…actually, I think it sucks, but I'll leave that up to you to decide. Don't worry, the action is coming back. Just wait a couple more chapters…I have three more major events planned before Eddie's revenge starts…  
  
Disclaimer: If you really think it's mine by now…  
  
  
  
Part VIII  
  
"Home"  
  
"Close your eyes."  
  
"Why?" Helga asked, giving Arnold a quizzical look. He was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, with a goofy grin on his face, like he was bursting with an wonderful secret. They had been in Brooklyn for four days, now, and most of his cheerful, happy-go-lucky optimism had come back. There were times, however, when Helga caught of glimpse of the steel he had grown, the coarseness that imprisonment had brought to him.  
  
"It's a surprise," Arnold replied, holding up a strip of cloth.  
  
"Oh, no," Helga said, backing away. "If you think you're blindfolding me, you better think again, Football Head."  
  
He made mock puppy-dog eyes. "Please? Pretty please? Pretty pretty please with sugar on top? And whipped cream and a cherry and sprinkles and hot fudge and…asparagus and chicken and…"  
  
"All right, all right already! Just shut up!" Helga snapped, but there was no venom in it. Grinning, Arnold stepped behind her and placed the blindfold over her eyes, tying it securely behind her head.  
  
"Come on," he said, taking her hand and leading her forward. Ordinarily Helga would panic, deprived of one of her senses, and she certainly wouldn't trust anyone else to lead her blind…but this was Arnold. Somehow she wasn't the slightest bit worried, and she knew he would never lead her into danger.  
  
She could tell by the way they were heading that they were leaving the boarding house. "Arnoldo, where are you taking me?" she asked as they exited the building.  
  
"You'll see," was all he'd say. "Careful. We're going down the stoop." They made their way carefully down the steps. "Okay, now we're getting into the car." She felt the gentle pressure of his hand on her head, making sure she didn't bump her head as she slid into Arnold's car. She heard the door close, and fumbled for her seatbelt as she waited for Arnold to get into the driver's side.  
  
The car started, rumbling underneath her. "Arnold, are we driving somewhere?" Helga asked.  
  
"That's generally what happens when one gets into a car," Arnold teased.  
  
"Then why didn't you just blindfold me when we got into the car, instead of having to lead me out of the house?" she asked.  
  
Arnold was silent for a minute. "Umm…"  
  
Helga laughed softly. "So you won't tell me where we're going?" she asked.  
  
"No," he said. "But it's not far. Just be patient." She heard a click, and then the radio came on, Dino Spumoni's voice crooning out of the speakers.  
  
Helga sat back, letting out an inaudible sigh. What was he doing? Come to think of it, what was she doing? Living in Arnold's house, being treated as a heroine and a guest of honor by his family and the boarders, living as part of the family…but it was all a lie. Arnold hadn't expressed anything more than friendship towards her since he had kissed her in the cell before his planned execution. And even that might have been just a friendly kiss. Maybe there hadn't been anything since they were trapped in a cell together.  
  
She was beginning to think that he might have been delirious at the time, or maybe she had been. He hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even given a hint that it had happened. And as much as she enjoyed his company, she knew that she couldn't stay with him indefinitely. Yes, she loved him. But she'd put herself through enough torture when she was younger to know what was healthy for her and what wasn't, and this certainly fell into the latter category.  
  
She would leave tomorrow, she decided. She would thank Phil and Gertie for their hospitality, and then she would go home. Or maybe to her other planned destination. She wasn't sure. But she did know that she shouldn't stay in Brooklyn any longer, not unless Arnold…well, he wouldn't.  
  
Lost in these thoughts, she was startled when Arnold turned off the radio and announced, "We're here." He got out of the car and walked around to her side to help her out.  
  
"Okay, I'm taking off the blindfold now," he told her. She felt him untie the band from around her head, and the cloth fell away from her eyes.  
  
She was standing in front of an old, middleclass brownstone, built in the vertical style of the day, crammed in with other buildings with stories stacked on top of each other. Yes, she knew where they were. Somewhere she'd sworn never to return to.  
  
Home.  
  
"Forget it, Arnold," she said, turning and heading back towards the car. "I'm not going in there."  
  
He stopped her, blocking her path and placing his hands on her shoulders. "Come on, Helga. They're your family. You have to reconcile with them eventually."  
  
"No, I don't," Helga replied stubbornly. "Now let go of me."  
  
He didn't. "Look, Helga, you gave me my family back. This is my chance to return the favor."  
  
"I don't *want* them back!" she snapped, frustrated. "And I'm sure they don't want me either!"  
  
"How do you know?" he asked. "I talked to your dad, and he seemed like he wanted to see you."  
  
"You talked to him?" she demanded, furious. "Why?"  
  
He sighed. "Helga. You need to do this. Just talk to them. Five minutes. You don't have to stay any longer than that, if you don't want to. I promise."  
  
Helga glared at him, but indecision was warring within her. He must have seen it, because he followed up on his advantage.  
  
"Please, Helga," he said coaxingly. "I promised them you'd come. You wouldn't make a liar out of me, would you?"  
  
She held the glare for a minute longer, trying to resist the urge to slap him or kiss him. "Fine," she spat out finally. "But five minutes. That's it."  
  
To her surprise, he didn't gloat, or even smile. He just looked at her sympathetically. "I'm proud of you, Helga," he said. She didn't answer, just headed for the stoop.  
  
"And who knows?" he asked as they mounted the steps. "You may just be surprised."  
  
"I doubt it," she said coldly, as she rang the doorbell. Her mind was full of the years she had spent here, shivering in the shadow of her older, perfect sister while her parents shone the little warmth they possessed down on *Ooolga.*  
  
God, her family. Big Bob, and his brusque, overbearing bellow. His bellicose growl. His materialistic money-grubbing and workaholism. His dictatorial commands and constant barrages of insults, calling her "Olga," or just "the girl." Mirium, her mother, with her alcoholism and her impotence and her bitterness and her inability to grasp even the simplest of motherhood skills. Helga had all but raised herself in that house.  
  
No wonder I turned out so screwed up, she thought bitterly, staring at the door of her childhood prison. The only decent role model I ever had was a football-headed little boy.  
  
And of course, there was *Ooolga.* Perfect in every way possible. It was hard to live your life as "Award-Winning Olga Pataki's Sister." Olga was smart, beautiful, talented, kind, married to a just-as-perfect-as-she-was man named Ned or something like that, had two perfect kids, and lived her life straight as a ruler. She hadn't colored outside of the lines in their coloring books since she was about one and half. Helga, on the other hand, had drawn goatees and devil horns on the people in the books, and then proceeded to draw her own pictures.  
  
Olga's one redeeming quality, at least in Helga's eyes, was that she at least loved Helga, in her own way. But Olga's own way was stifling and selfish. Helga had long ago realized that Olga loved her "baby sister" because she felt that a big sister should, and it would have been a mark against her on her perfect slate if she hadn't. She didn't really know Helga, or understand her at all, and she was so completely dominated by their father, as was Mirium, that Helga hadn't heard from either of them in four years.  
  
It wasn't that she missed them so much as it simply hurt to realize that they just hadn't cared enough to contact her. She should hardly have been surprised, though, that her absence hadn't really been felt in the Pataki family circle. Her presence hadn't been felt, either. That was what had marked her childhood, just two things—longing for Arnold, and coldness at home.  
  
No wonder I jet around the world the way I do, Helga realized, staring at her door. The only home I ever knew was no home to me. Arnold was all the home I ever had, and I looked for him everywhere I went.  
  
All these thoughts took but a few seconds, which was just as well, for Helga could hear footsteps approaching. Hurriedly, she stepped back, suddenly bashful and apprehensive. What if Bob threw her out? What if he slammed the door in her face? Why had Arnold even done this to her in the first place?  
  
The door opened slowly, as if the person on the other side was just as afraid of this meeting as she was. And there stood her father, Big Bob Pataki, just the way she remembered him. Sure, his hair was a little grayer, and the wrinkles around his eyes were a little deeper, but he was still the big, hulking man she remembered. She had grown considerably since childhood, when he had towered above her, but he was still a giant to her.  
  
She had never seen that look in his eyes, though, not once in the nineteen years she had still considered herself his daughter.  
  
"Helga?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid it would break. She nodded, mildly surprised that he had gotten her name right. She wasn't sure what game he was playing, but she wouldn't let him win. The moment he showed his colors, if he tried to screw with her again, she would let him have it.  
  
"My baby girl!" he said suddenly, pulling her into his arms crushingly and enfolding her in a tight embrace. Helga's eyes widened slightly. What was this? Her father, Big Bob Pataki, openly admitting affection?  
  
"I missed you so much," he admitting gruffly into her ear, not letting go of her. She noticed a break in his voice. Was the Beeper King actually crying?  
  
The smell of him, Yahoo soda and pipe tobacco and woolen sweaters, suddenly came at her in a rush. She had a vivid flashback, as clear as if it was happening right now. It was nighttime, and she was standing in a tree house with Arnold and some of the others, watching as a bulldozer headed uncompromisingly towards them, ready to destroy the tree, with them in it. And her father, rolling on the ground with the scumbag who was willing to kill them to get rid of this tree—his clothing ripped, his nose bloodied, but fighting…fighting to save her life, his daughter's life. She felt sudden, unexpected tears spring to her eyes.  
  
"I missed you too, Daddy," she told him, hugging him back. All thoughts of berating him to protect herself flew out the window. Her father loved her. He loved her. She knew it. He didn't have to say it, and he might not, but he had shown her—and when it came down to real, true emotions, showing them was the Pataki way, when words were too hard.  
  
After all, hadn't she shown Arnold she loved him, when she saved his life? It was his own fault if he didn't get it. She, as a Pataki, needed no translation.  
  
"Come inside," Bob said, pulling away. "Your mother's waiting. You too, Andrew."  
  
Helga rolled her eyes, smiling. Good old Bob. "Arnold, Dad."  
  
"Right, Arnold."  
  
Arnold, looking not insulted in the least, followed them into the house.  
  
They went into the trophy room. Helga caught a glimpse of several people in the room before she was enfolded, this time by two sets of arms.  
  
"Helga, oh, my little girl!"  
  
"Baby sister!"  
  
Helga hugged her mother and sister back, and now she was crying, really crying, as bad as Olga when she was on a crying jag, but a happy crying jag. "Mom! Olga!" she sobbed, laughing through her tears.  
  
"Oh, Helga, I'm so glad you're finally home!" Mirium said, when they had calmed down enough to break away and talk.  
  
"Let me look at you," Olga said, holding her at arm's length. "Oh, you're beautiful, baby sister!"  
  
Helga smiled, a little ironically. "I finally look like you, Olga," she teased.  
  
"Oh, you must meet Nathan!" Olga squealed, switching gears in the way she had. She beckoned, and a handsome man came forward. Oh, that was his name. Nathan. He looked like he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ, with chiseled good looks and a perfectly pressed suit. He looked like he lived in suits, like he took showers in them.  
  
"Hi, Nate," Helga said cheerfully, sticking a hand out.  
  
"Nathan," he corrected a bit dryly, giving her a thousand-watt grin. "It's so nice to finally meet Olga's sister. She's told me so much about you."  
  
"And these are the twins," Olga said, gently pushing two angelic little blond cherubs in matching sailor suits forward. "The boy is named Robert, after Daddy, and the girl is named Helga, after…well, you."  
  
Helga bent down to the children's level, flabbergasted. Olga had named her daughter after her? The poor child—Helga was an atrocious name. She studied the children. Except for sex, they were practically identical, with round chubby faces, thin, pale hair, and serious, earnest blue eyes.  
  
"Are you our Aunt Helga?" the boy, Robert asked in a clear, piping voice.  
  
Helga nodded. "Yes, I am."  
  
"Do you hate your name, too?" asked the girl, her namesake, looking at her with innocent eyes.  
  
"Helga!" said Olga sharply.  
  
The older Helga looked back at the little girl, whose eyes suddenly twinkled mischievously. "Yes, I do," she replied with a little smile.  
  
"Helga!" said Mirium, just as sharply.  
  
The two Helgas grinned at each other, and the older one stood up, glancing idly at the trophy shelves as she did. What she saw there almost made her fall down again.  
  
"What…?" Slowly, she walked over to the shelves. Olga's trophies had been shoved aside, crammed in on top of each other, to make room for books, books she thought she recognized.  
  
Coming closer, she was sure she knew these books—they were hers! And not just one copy of each—no, there were Spanish translations and French and German and Dutch…there must have been at least a dozen copies of each of the six poetry books she had written. And she knew her parents didn't speak any other languages. Her father used to say that if someone didn't know how to speak English, they probably didn't know anything else useful either, so it was no use trying to talk to them. But here were her books, in a dozen translations, in her parents' house.  
  
Below the books were binders, like the photo albums they had had of Olga. These had her name on them, though. "Helga I," "Helga II," and so forth. She pulled one out, aware that everyone behind her was silently watching her every move.  
  
Slowly, she opened the heavy binder. It was a scrapbook, filled with articles on her, book reviews, little clippings—anything that mentioned her name. There were even adds, and a cartoon the New Yorker had run on her a couple of years ago. Some of the references were so minute she could barely find them, but everything was there. Her mother must have spent hundreds of hours putting these together.  
  
There were video tapes on the shelf, too, labeled "Helga on Oprah," "Helga on Late Show," "Helga on Rhonda." There was even a tape labeled "Helga in School Play, 4th Grade, R&J." Helga smiled nostalgically, remembering that.  
  
All this stuff—there had to be at least as much as they had ever had on Olga, if not more. She turned back to her parents, astonishment clearly written all over her face.  
  
"We've got every stinkin' article you were ever in, every show you were ever on," her father told her, reading her face.  
  
"We're so proud of you, Helga," her mother said softly.  
  
"Yeah, you've done real good, girl," Bob added gruffly.  
  
Helga felt tears gathering in her eyes again. Her parents were proud of her. They were proud of her! Not Olga, her. Helga.  
  
"Why didn't you come back to us, Helga?" her mother asked.  
  
Helga blinked away the tears that were threatening to spill over. "I wanted to," she said, realizing that her words were true as she said them. "I wanted to so badly. But you told me that I wasn't a Pataki anymore." The last comment was directed at her father.  
  
"I never said that!" Bob said, looking shocked. "I would never!"  
  
"You did, Dad," she said, looking at him. "You said that I was no longer your daughter."  
  
He shook his head. "You just think I said that," he contradicted. "But I didn't. You were just being stubborn. Why would I say that you weren't my daughter? You are my daughter. You're my baby girl. I love you."  
  
She could have argued more, but she knew that it wouldn't do any good. He would just be stubborn, as stubborn as he had been about contacting her before. But he was right about one thing—she had been just as stubborn as he. And what did it matter, anyway? He had said he loved her. Her father, Robert "Big Bob" Pataki, the Beeper King, had just said that he loved his youngest daughter, Helga Geraldine Pataki. Why be stubborn any longer?  
  
For the first time in four years, Helga G. Pataki was home.  
  
  
  
  
  
Aww….I love Helga's family so much, I really do. They're so stupid! Lol. Anyway, reviews, please…I'm aiming for a hundred by the end of this story. 


	9. Confession

Author's Note: Ooh. The heartbreak chapter. Everything's going pretty good for Helga…well… (Ominous music plays.) On another, non-story note, who else is PUMPED for the April Fools episode?!? (I felt that deserved an excess of punctuation.) Thanks for letting me know about that, Houkanno Yuuhou. I am MORE than excited.  
  
Disclaimer: Come on. Really. What do you think? (P.S. Craig is GOD!)  
  
  
  
Part IX  
  
"Confession"  
  
Arnold took Helga out to dinner that night, to "celebrate your real, true homecoming." Her family had wanted her to have dinner with them, but nineteen years of neglect and four years of separation aren't cured in a few hours. Yes, she loved them, and was thrilled that they had finally admitted that they loved her too, but still, there was only so much time she could spend with them.  
  
It was a technique she had learned from Arnold—two steps forward, one step back. It's slower, but you make it eventually. Someday, maybe, the Patakis would be a healthy, emotionally stable family. Right now, Helga just wanted to go out to dinner with Arnold.  
  
She had to hand it to him, she thought, as he pulled her chair out for her to sit. He could make anything into an occasion. They had gone out to Chez Paris, to "make a night of it," Arnold had said. There was something he wanted to tell her, he said, and he wanted everything to be perfect.  
  
That obnoxious little voice in the back of her head was bothering her again. A man dresses up and takes a woman to a fancy French restaurant to tell her something. Gee, I wonder what it could be…  
  
Hey, I already told you to shut up! Despite the faint hopes that she could somehow never quite eradicate from her heart, Helga was sure that whatever Arnold needed to tell her was something completely innocent, nothing romantic whatsoever. Those girlish hopes were things of the past, things that could only get in the way of this newfound, precious friendship with Arnold.  
  
"You look beautiful, Helga," Arnold said from across the table.  
  
"Thank you," Helga replied softly, trying not to blush. Why was it that the slightest compliment from him, which wouldn't have made her blink from anyone else, made her flush and giggle like a teenager? Well, she knew why…  
  
She did look nice, or at least that's what she had thought, dressing back at the boarding house. She had forgone the black for the night, and even the pink of her childhood, settling instead on a deep blue dress. A new relationship with her family, a new beginning, a new color. The dress was cut modestly in front, with a mid-thigh hemline and a low-cut back that was a maze of crisscrossing straps. Sexy without being slutty—perfect for Arnold.  
  
"No, really," Arnold said earnestly, leaning forward slightly. "You look like…a woman."  
  
It wasn't quite the compliment she was hoping for. "Um…thanks, I guess."  
  
He laughed. "No, I mean…that's not what I mean. It's just…" He paused for a minute, trying to decide how best to put his thoughts into words. "When I last saw you—I mean, before Cairo—it was at graduation. And you were still—I mean, you were beautiful then, lovely but still with this innocence, this awful, heart-wrenching innocence, and a look in your eyes like there was something you were hoping would happen, something that you were praying for until the very last minute. You looked like…you looked like Olga when she was our student teacher, when we were children. With a woman's face and a woman's body and everything all grown up and mature, but still with a girl's heart underneath."  
  
Helga was trying to decide how to process this, when their waiter appeared. They placed their orders, Helga ordering hers in fluent French, something she had picked up from her frequent trips around the world.  
  
As the waiter left, Arnold began again. "And then I didn't see you in person again until last week. But I saw you on TV, and in your book jackets, and in articles, and you always seemed a little…lost. Like something was missing. Like you had been thrust into being grown-up too soon, and you weren't sure exactly what you were doing."  
  
Helga felt her ears grow red, and she hoped she wasn't flushing too obviously. It was like he could read her thoughts, could sense the coldness, the loneliness she had felt during those years.  
  
"And then you came into my cell, and I was finally confronted with a really, truly grown-up you," he went on, toying with his silverware. "And you were a woman…but there was something so hurt, so wounded in everything you did. You were skittish, almost…doelike, like an injured animal afraid of the hand that heals it. Am I embarrassing you?" he asked suddenly, looking up at her.  
  
Helga looked down quickly at her hands. "Well…"  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, and she knew that he didn't just mean for embarrassing her. "But…I guess what I'm trying to say is that you were always beautiful. Now you're a beautiful woman."  
  
Helga looked at him, read the piercing honesty in his green eyes. "Thank you," was all she could manage to say.  
  
She didn't have to say much more. Their food came then, and they set to with a will. Helga noticed Arnold glancing askance at her plate.  
  
"Is that…calf brains and eggs?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.  
  
She nodded. "I know, it sounds really gross, but I developed a taste for in the few times I've been in France."  
  
"Are you sure it won't make you throw up again?" he wanted to know.  
  
"Throw up again…?" she asked, confused. Suddenly it hit her—nine years old, masquerading as Arnold's French pen pal Cecile, ordering the same thing here, at Chez Paris, and throwing up in the bathroom…  
  
She cursed her foolishness. Her subconscious had done it, making her order the same thing she had eaten last time she was with Arnold here.  
  
"You…knew?" she asked, unable to meet Arnold's eyes.  
  
"Not at the time," he admitted, shrugging. "Not for a long time, actually. Not until you started wearing your hair down in eighth grade. You had this one piece that always fell in your eyes—like this," he said, reaching across the small table to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "It was so familiar to me, and then I realized why…and then I remember walking by your house one day in high school, and seeing that red shoe in the garbage…"  
  
"Mirium tried to get rid of it," Helga said slowly, staring at her food, "because there was only one. She went through all of my stuff and threw out a bunch of it. I saved the shoe from the trash, though. I still have it."  
  
"I suppose it's no good asking you why you did it?" Arnold asked, knowing that she would know he didn't mean rescuing the shoe.  
  
"No," she replied morosely.  
  
"I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable," Arnold said softly. "I don't want you to be uncomfortable around me."  
  
"I know."  
  
They finished their dinner in silence. When the bill came, Arnold reached for it and began to giggle.  
  
"What?" Helga asked, finally looking at him again.  
  
"I was just remembering," he said, laughing outright now, "the time you invited me and Phoebe and Gerald out and you couldn't pay the bill, and we wound up washing dishes."  
  
Helga started to laugh too, remembering. "I'm surprised they don't have pictures of the two of us in here by now, warning employees not to serve us. That was pretty funny."  
  
"Best date I've ever been on," Arnold teased as the waiter took the check.  
  
Helga paused for a minute. "I did it to impress you," she admitted finally.  
  
Arnold met her eyes. There it was, those green eyes with that question she could never hide from. "I know."  
  
They returned to the boarding house, where they headed up to the roof to look at the stars. Arnold opened his skylight so that the music from his CD player could be heard on the roof. Some old Dino Spumoni love song blared out, and Helga grinned knowingly.  
  
"What was this, your high school seduction mix?" she asked teasingly. "Get a girl in your room and put this on, tell her that the songs reminded you of her and maybe get a little lucky?"  
  
Arnold looked wounded. "I would never do that," he said, his eyes hurt.  
  
She smiled gently. "I know you wouldn't, Arnold. That's why it was a joke."  
  
"Oh."  
  
They sat there as Dino crooned his way through a song about that good old girl from Brooklyn. Elton John followed Dino.  
  
"I like this mix," Helga said, listening to the lyrics. And I guess that's why they call it the blues/ Time on my hands could be time spent with you/ Laughing like children, living like lovers/ Rolling like thunder under the covers/ And I guess that's why they call it the blues…  
  
"His older stuff is great, isn't it?" Arnold asked. "I guess it's sappy, a guy liking love songs, but no one ever accused me of not being sappy. I have about a dozen mixes of love songs."  
  
Helga smiled. "Yeah, I remember you burning CDs back in middle school when most of us were just getting the hang of e-mail. You were always up on the latest technology."  
  
He shrugged. "It was a hobby, I guess. I was interested in a lot of things as a kid." Suddenly he looked at her. "Would you care to dance?"  
  
Something in the way he asked made her cautious. He was planning something, she could tell. He looked far too pleased with himself. But she simply said, "Sure."  
  
He got up and helped her to her feet. Ever the gentleman, he took her hand to dance, formally, rather than the more casual, close arms-around-the-neck dancing spawned on middle school gyms floors during Spring Fling dances. It still took a little getting used to that even in heels, he was a couple of inches taller than Helga.  
  
"You're a better dancer than you were as a kid," Helga said as they swayed back and forth. "You were always stepping on my feet when we had that ridiculous unit in gym class."  
  
"Yeah, we always got paired together," Arnold mused. "I wonder why? You're not half bad yourself."  
  
"Yeah, well, sleep with enough Spanish choreographers and you pick it up," she replied as he dipped her.  
  
"I'm afraid I haven't had the pleasure," he tossed back as she came back up, face to face with him.  
  
"I can't picture you sleeping with anyone, actually," Helga realized out loud. "I guess I still think of you as being nine years old."  
  
"Do you try to?" he wanted to know, his brow furrowed. "And why not? I'm not a 'sexual creature' to you?"  
  
"I plead the fifth!" Helga begged, laughing at the mock-hurt look on his face. "Immunity, please!"  
  
Arnold stopped and watched her double over in laughter, hands on his hips in mock-indignation. "I don't have to stand for this," he said, lifting his chin haughtily.  
  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she gasped, getting her laughter under control. "You're very sexy, Arnold. You're a total hottie. How's that?"  
  
He smiled slightly. "Better," he replied, replacing his hand back on her waist and leading her across the roof again. "Getting there."  
  
A new song had started, slowing their tempo slightly. The lyrics filtered gently past Helga as they danced. See the pyramids along the Nile/ Watch the sunrise on a tropic isle/ Just remember, baby, all the while/ You belong to me/ See the marketplace in old Algiers/ Send me photographs and souvenirs/ Just remember when a dream appears/ You belong to me…  
  
Arnold spoke abruptly, breaking their silence. "I told you I needed to tell you something," he said, not looking at Helga. "Well, I suppose now would be as good a time as any."  
  
"I'm listening," she assured him, confused.  
  
"I know you are," he replied, "but this…it's hard. I…Helga, I…"  
  
I'll be so lonesome without you/ Maybe you'll be lonesome too/ And blue…  
  
They had stopped dancing. Arnold looked Helga directly in the eye, and said the words that she had been waiting her whole life to hear.  
  
"Helga, I…I think I'm in love with you."  
  
Fly the ocean in a silver plane/ See the jungle when it's wet with rain/ Just remember till you're home again/ You belong to me…  
  
Helga stared at him, trying to find her voice. There it was. "You think…"  
  
He shook his head. "No. That was wrong. I know. Helga, I'm in love with you."  
  
The world stopped. It literally stopped spinning, and people were flung off from the abrupt cease of centrifugal force. The sun came out in the middle of the night, and the stars flew out of the sky, and birds burst into song, and flowers burst into bloom, and the whole of New York City lit up like one giant neon parade. Arnold loved her. He LOVED her. Her! Helga G. Pataki! Helga felt like shouting it out to the world, writing it across the sky with planes, beaming a message across every satellite in the stratosphere. HE LOVED HER!  
  
But before she could even get a handle on her happiness, a small, nagging thought gave her pause.  
  
When she had graduated and left Arnold, for good, she thought at the time, she had believe that there could have been no greater pain in existence. This pain, this disappointment, was greater.  
  
"No, you don't," she said evenly, forcing all emotion out of her voice.  
  
"W-what?" he asked, taken aback. Out of all the emotions and responses she could have had, this was not what he expected.  
  
"You don't love me," she repeated, her heart growing heavier by the word. "You just think you do."  
  
Arnold looked flabbergasted. "Helga, I…"  
  
"No, listen to me now," she said, stepping away from him. "I know you. I know who you are, I know your right-and-wrongs, and your moral hang-ups, and your do-gooder instincts. You want to repay me for all I've done for you, and you have a surge of gratitude that you don't know how else to express. So you think you love me. But you don't," she went on, savagely. "You don't. You love the…the force that gave you back your parents, and saved your life, and freed you from prison, and since I did all that, you think you love me. But you love me for what I did, not who I am."  
  
Arnold tried again to interject. "But you didn't give me a chance…"  
  
Helga's tears were threatening to overflow. "Don't you get it, Arnold? I love you! I. Love. You. I always have. That's why I was Cecile, that's why I teased you, that's why I got you the snow boots…"  
  
"Snow boots…?"  
  
"Never mind. I love you, Arnold. And for your sake—yours, not mine—I can't let you do this. Because I know you, and I know that after a declaration of love you could never bring yourself to take it back, never cause that much inadvertent hurt to another person, and you'd be stuck. Stuck with me, instead of someone who deserves you and your impossible goodness." She was practically shouting now, and tears were streaming down her face, but she barely felt them. Why was it that every time things seemed to be going right, the world had to come in and ruin it?  
  
Arnold seemed to have lost his strength, and now he simply looked sad. "Helga…"  
  
She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Arnold. I'm so sorry…"  
  
Before she knew what was happening, he had pulled her into his arms and was kissing her, harder, more desperately than he ever had before. For a moment she let herself sink into the kiss, drown herself in it. It would be so easy to let go, to let him take over… She was reminded of stories she had heard of people who froze to death, who died because it was so much more pleasant than living; of divers who got so caught up in the beauty they saw under the ocean they forgot about the need for air. That was what Arnold was like. It would be so easy…and such a pleasant way to go…  
  
No. She pushed herself away from Arnold, who was breathing hard, as if he'd just run a marathon.  
  
"I have to go," she said abruptly. "Good-bye, Arnold."  
  
She turned and ran. He didn't follow her, just stood there as the music washed over him. Maybe you'll be lonely too/ And blue…  
  
Helga was glad it was late enough for all of the boarders to be in bed. She wept openly as she threw what few belongings she had with her into her suitcase and headed for the door. She tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to wake Arnold's family as she went. She wanted to say good-bye to Sam and Katie, to thank Gertie and Phil, but more than that she just wanted to get away, get out of Arnold's house, away from the hurt and the boy she had left alone on the roof.  
  
She saw a taxi in the distance and waited impatiently for it to arrive, trying to stop crying. It didn't help that the music from the roof was loud enough for her to hear, mocking her as she stood in her blue evening gown on the street. Fly the ocean in a silver plane/ See the jungle when it's wet with rain… A new color, a new beginning…so much for that. She felt old and broken.  
  
The cab pulled to a stop and she got in, tossing her suitcase in first. As the door closed, the last strains of music followed her, playing inside her heart.  
  
Just remember till you're home again/ You belong to me…  
  
"Good-bye, Arnold," she whispered again, as the streets of Brooklyn faded away, brown and crumbling in the distance, the lights of LaGuardia International Airport gleaming ahead. 


	10. Friendship

Author's Note: Okay, I went back and fixed it…I don't know why I copied it like that, but now there is only one of this chapter. I hope.  
  
Disclaimer: As I said before, Hey Arnold does not belong to me. Neither do "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" (Elton John) and "You Belong To Me" (Patsy Cline) from the last chapter.  
  
  
  
Part X  
  
"Friendship"  
  
Helga didn't cry in the taxicab as they drove to the airport. She didn't cry on the entire flight to Boston. She didn't cry as she looked up the people she was looking for in the phone book, and she didn't cry in the cab on the way to their house. And she didn't cry, ringing the doorbell, standing on the front steps of an impressively large and elegant house.  
  
But when her old best friend Phoebe Hyerdahl-Johansen opened the door and exclaimed "Helga!" she burst into tears.  
  
"Helga, what happened?" Phoebe asked, pulling her into a hug, the past six years melting away until they were seventeen again, BFFs, P.H. and H.P., the Dynamic Duo. "Is everything all right?"  
  
Helga sniffled, trying to get her emotions under control. "It's just…Arnold…and then I left…and I was kidnapped…and…oh, God, Phoebes, I missed you so much!" Something released inside of her, knowing that she was with the one person in the world to whom she could tell everything, who would never judge and always understand. She had a sudden, inexplicable feeling of safety.  
  
"Phoebe? Who is it?" a familiar voice called from inside. Helga stiffened, and her tears abruptly ceased. She had never let herself show her true emotion in front of him, and her pride prevented her from starting now.  
  
Phoebe didn't answer her husband, just leaned over and grabbed Helga's suitcase. "Come on in, Helga," she offered, leading her friend into the house. "Come say hello to Gerald."  
  
Phoebe and Gerald's house was large and comfortable, full of cedar furniture and woodsy scents and thick red Oriental rugs. There were interesting knickknacks everywhere and stark, black and white photographs in russet frames on the walls—little girls, pine trees, city skylines. The house was like a larger version of Phoebe and Gerald's relationship—quiet, intense, durable, and right, like something that was simply supposed to happen. There was a peacefulness to it that eased some of Helga's anxieties.  
  
As they walked through the house, Helga studied her old friend surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. Phoebe looked much the same as always, still petit and elfin, with short, shining black hair whacked off unceremoniously below the ear and slightly tousled. She still stubbornly clung to glasses—Helga remembered the two-month fiasco in eleventh grade when Phoebe had attempted to switch to contacts. She had lost one almost every other day, been consistently late to school because it took her so long to get them in, and developed allergic reactions the doctors didn't even know were possible. It had all culminated in Phoebe getting a contact stuck behind her eyeball and almost requiring surgery to get it out. After that she had stuck with the old wire-rim spectacles, but they looked good on her, accentuating the lovely almond eyes that Helga had always envied.  
  
They entered the family room, where Gerald was sitting, flipping channels on a wide screen TV. He turned as the women walked in, jumping up when he saw Helga.  
  
"Helga!" he exclaimed, just as Phoebe had. Like Phoebe, he looked much the same as he had when they were younger, except for the hair, which he had tuned down after high school.  
  
"Hello, Gerald," Helga replied, a little uncertainly. They had never been close.  
  
To her surprise, Gerald came up to her and embraced her. "It's good to see you well," he said, hugging her stiffly, feeling the strangeness between them as acutely as she did.  
  
"Arnold called us and told us what happened in Cairo," Phoebe explained as Gerald and Helga broke apart. "Obviously we knew you were safe, but we were still worried about your…mental health, after an ordeal like that."  
  
"What happened?" Gerald asked earnestly. "I mean, getting kidnapped…who was this Edward Niles guy?"  
  
Helga blushed slightly, feeling a little flustered. "It's…it's a long story, and I just really dropped in to say hello…I'll need to call a hotel…"  
  
"Nonsense," Phoebe said, waving a hand. "You'll stay with us."  
  
"I don't want to impose…"  
  
"Helga," Phoebe interrupted, giving her a look. "It's us."  
  
Helga smiled. "Oh, yeah. I forgot." Feeling better, she sat down on the couch and launched into her story. "Well, you see, I was kind of making my tour of foreign cities—I do that when I write—and…" She told them the whole story, every detail, from her kidnapping to seeing Arnold again, from meeting Arnold's parents to breaking out of jail, from the botched execution to the reunion at the Pataki home. The only things she left out were any romantic encounters between her and Arnold. She would tell those to Phoebe alone, later—besides, anything Arnold wanted Gerald to know about that he had surely already told him.  
  
It was good to be back, among friends, people who knew her past and expected nothing of her. After her story, which left Phoebe and Gerald properly dumbfounded, they had dinner, which Gerald cooked, surprising Helga. It was very good, too—a kind of delicate beef dish, with something like a quiche on the side and a cold potato soup. Phoebe explained proudly that Gerald was a man of many talents.  
  
They sat around the fire with glasses of red wine after dinner, reminiscing about the good old days in Brooklyn. Helga felt old, very old, and every time Gerald and Phoebe exchanged a glance or a kiss, she felt lonely. They were still newlyweds in love, these two, despite their years together, and she wondered why exactly she had left Arnold standing on the roof. Didn't she love him? Didn't she want to be with him, want to spend her life gazing adoringly into his green eyes and writing poetry full of worship and daydreams?  
  
But no, that wasn't to be. She knew she had done the right thing. She would love nothing better than to have Arnold love her, completely, unconditionally, forever. But he didn't, and he couldn't. After all, she was Helga.  
  
It grew late, and eventually Phoebe showed Helga to her room, a cozy little nook furnished in warm russets and yellow. "When you live in Massachusetts, you try to make everything feel as warm as possible," Phoebe explained, showing her where the bathroom and everything else was.  
  
It was the perfect time to get something that had been bothering her off her chest, and Helga took advantage of it. "Phoebes?" she said softly.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Helga sat on the bed next to her open suitcase, hanging her head. "I…I'm sorry I didn't stay in touch with you better over these past few years. There were a lot of things, and I guess I just kind of got caught up in what I was doing and didn't…I don't know, reach out that hand. But I got kind of mixed up without you to steer me straight…you always kept me on track, and I needed that, I guess. It's just…I'm sorry. I should have been a better friend."  
  
Phoebe sat down next to Helga, taking her hand. "It's okay, Helga. I'm just as much at fault as you are, anyway. It takes two to stop calling and writing…I'm sorry, too."  
  
Helga smiled crookedly, and the two hugged. Somehow Helga knew that even if she left now and they didn't talk for the next seventy years, they would still be the best of friends. But she didn't see any reason to leave now.  
  
Phoebe, sensing that something else was troubling Helga, broached another topic, one that she knew was tricky even in the best of times.  
  
"Helga…" she began cautiously. "What happened with Arnold?"  
  
Helga's mind flashed back to the few, sweet kisses, the night on the roof, his hand in hers…his eyes. Without warning, she burst into fresh tears.  
  
"He…he said he loved me," she gasped out between sobs.  
  
Phoebe's jaw dropped. Okay, so Arnold hadn't told Gerald everything. "What did you do?"  
  
"I left." Chokingly, Helga explained all that had happened between the two of them, and her reasons for leaving. Phoebe nodded sagely as Helga narrated her tale of woe.  
  
"Well, I think you did the right thing," Phoebe said finally. "I'm proud of you."  
  
"You are?" Helga sniffled.  
  
"Yes," Phoebe replied firmly. "Not many people would be mature enough and considerate enough to walk away like that. But I don't think…" She trailed off.  
  
"What?" Helga asked. "What don't you think?"  
  
Phoebe shrugged. "Arnold's not the type to rush into things, to not think things through. I don't think he would say anything he didn't mean. Maybe he was wrong, and if he was, you surely showed him that, and he can move on. But if he's not…if he really meant it, if he really does love you…then he'll follow you. And he'll figure out how to prove it."  
  
Helga smiled through her tears. "You're pretty smart, Phoebes," she said.  
  
Phoebe smiled back. "Yeah. No wonder I was the first person to get through Harvard premed and medical school in only six years." She patted Helga on the back and got up. "Sleep well, Helga. Get some rest. You look exhausted."  
  
"Good night, Phoebe," Helga said, getting up to unpack her suitcase. "Oh, and Phoebes?"  
  
Phoebe paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Phoebe smiled. "You're welcome, Helga." With that, she disappeared down stairs.  
  
Helga had barely unpacked a shirt when there was a knock on her doorframe. She looked up to see Gerald standing in the open doorway, looking uncertain. "Hey, Gerald."  
  
"Hey, Helga. Can I come in?"  
  
She spread her hands. "It's your house."  
  
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked into the room. "Is the room all right?" he asked.  
  
"It's perfect," she replied. "You guys have a beautiful house."  
  
"Thanks." He suddenly seemed to decide to cut to the chase. "Look, Helga…I've been meaning to apologize to you for a while," he said.  
  
Helga gave him a look. "About what?" she asked.  
  
He sighed. "Well…I guess it's partially my fault that Phoebe didn't really try to keep in touch with you during college," he admitted. "I didn't always give her your messages, I tried to discourage her from contacting you…I just kind of tried to put a wedge in the friendship. I was…jealous, I guess. Jealous of the hold you had on her, of how much she respected you and wanted to emulate you."  
  
Helga scoffed. "Phoebe's the one to emulate," she said. "She's perfect. Smart and nice and…"  
  
He gave a small chuckle. "Yeah, don't I know it," he said. "But you've got some qualities too." He blew out a big breath of air. "But like I said, I was a little envious of how much of her time worrying about you took up. It was like Arnold all over again."  
  
Helga's gaze hardened. "What about Arnold?"  
  
Gerald shrugged. "When we were younger, even in elementary school, but really all the way up till graduation, he was always fretting over you, thinking about you, wondering, trying to figure you out. I got so sick of hearing about you…I used to tease him, ask him if he had a crush on you, and he'd get all red in the face and huffy and change the subject. It wasn't like his other crushes, on stupid people like Ruth McDougal and Lila, so I didn't know, but he was definitely more concerned with you than anyone else we knew."  
  
Helga looked down at her hands. "I didn't know that," she said softly.  
  
"Of course not," Gerald replied. "He's good at keeping secrets. Almost as good as you." He let that sink in before continuing. "Anyway, when Phoebe and I got serious…well, I always thought that you were a bad influence on her…you know you and I didn't have a very good relationship in school…and so I kind of pulled her away from you. And I just wanted to say that, well…I'm sorry. I'm sorry because it wasn't right to do to you or her, whether it was good for her or not. But I'm also sorry because it was wrong, because you are and always have been a great influence on her and you've always brought out the best in her, and I just…I'd like to bury the hatchet. I'd like to try and be friends, real friends, for once."  
  
Helga smiled slowly. "I'd like that," she said. "I mean, I don't blame you at all for what you did. I wasn't exactly the greatest to you when we were young. And I know you were doing it for Phoebe. But Gerald, I always supported your…suit with her, I guess." Gerald chuckled at the archaic term. "I always thought you were right for her. I was so happy when I heard about your wedding. For both of you."  
  
"Thanks," Gerald said. They stood there awkwardly for a minute, then hugged, even more awkwardly—but in a pleasant, fresh kind of awkward, not the distance they had suffered through when she first arrived.  
  
Gerald turned to go. Halfway to the door, he stopped. "Helga?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Arnold told me what happened between you…some of it. And how brave you were in Egypt, and strong, and wonderful, and…well, you know Arnold and his superlatives. And he's my best friend, and I love him, and I'm almost as grateful as he is for saving his life, and his parents and all…"  
  
Helga felt herself flushing slightly. "Yeah?"  
  
"Well, I just wanted to say…" Gerald paused. "You're a bold kid, Helga. A bold, bold kid."  
  
Helga smiled. "You too, Geraldo." Gerald grinned, and walked out the door.  
  
Helga went back to her unpacking, feeling much better now that the air was cleared with both residents of the house. She had gotten almost to the bottom of the suitcase when she felt something small and hard in it, stuck under the lining. She worked it out and held it under the light.  
  
It was a small, grubby piece of paper, folded many times into a triangle, the edges bent from being tossed around for the past few days. 'Helga G. Pataki' was written on it in Arnold's untidy scrawl. She held it tightly, feeling the blood pounding in her ears. Arnold's letter. His last, staring-death-in-the-face, final confession letter. Should she read it?  
  
Well, it was for her. She might as well. With shaking hands, she opened the intricately folded football, smiling faintly as she got the joke. She smoothed it out, and began to read.  
  
Dear Helga… 


	11. Letter

Author's Note: Be grateful, gang. I'm updating within a half hour of my last update. Well, it's a very short chapter. But he only had one piece of paper! Blame that jerk Eddie for not giving him enough paper to write on, not me.  
  
Disclaimer: Once again, Hey Arnold is, sadly, not mine. Which is probably a good thing…it'd all be sappy Helga/Arnold episodes all the time. And Chocolate Boy. I love Chocolate Boy. He so rocks my world. So does Dino Spumoni. In fact, all of the characters rock (even Lila, in measured amounts) except Sid. Sid bites. (Sorry, Sid fans, but he's such a jerk. I can't stand him.) I'm really chatty tonight, aren't I?  
  
  
  
Part XI  
  
"Letter"  
  
Dear Helga,  
  
I only have a page to write this on, so I have to try and make this succinct. It's hard, because there's a lot I want to say, that I won't be able to say to you after this, even though I wish I could, and there are no rough drafts. I have to say it just right the first time, so here goes.  
  
God, Helga, I'm scared. I don't want to die. It's not the actual dying that I'm scared of—I've been through enough pain, physical and emotional, that that holds no fear for me. And afterwards…well, if there's anything afterwards, I'm sure my parents will be there.  
  
What I'm afraid of isn't dying, it's not being alive anymore. You should know by now that I love life, everything about it. And I love people. I guess I might have seemed a little cynical before, and there are some people like Niles who aren't exactly fine, upstanding citizens, but people…people are great. Love them, Helga, because they need someone to. Love everyone you meet. There's good everywhere, and there's beauty and magic inside everything. I truly believe that. I always have. "Despite everything, I still think that people are truly good at heart." Anne Frank said that. I think she was right. And look what they did to her!  
  
But anyway, I need to tell you what I tried to tell you before, what I should've told you, what I should've told you a long time ago, but I didn't know. I told you I had your first couple of books, right? Well, I had two copies of each, actually. I had the "good" copies that I kept at home, and then I had the copies I took with me, the ones that were dog eared from going on expeditions and being read every night. I have collections of articles on you, tapes of your appearances—your early ones, at least. Everything I could find. I guess I was one of your biggest fans.  
  
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're going to die. Maybe I'm not close enough to the end for that to happen, but it did happen to me once before. You know when? Do you remember that flood we had at school in fourth grade? When you fell out the window, my life flashed before your eyes—and it was full of spitballs. Really, though, that was the greatest fear I'd ever felt, more than when I was mugged, more than being stuck in that roller coaster or on the haunted train, more than this, right now. I was afraid I'd lose you. You, my tormentor, my persecutor, my cross to bear. But it was the most frightening thing I'd ever experienced.  
  
I guess even then it was there. I just was too young to realize it. I mean, I fell for girls like Ruth McDougal and Lila and that girl Summer that year at the beach (Remember her? The one you saved me from?). And you were always just kind of there, picking on me, shooting spitballs from the back row, scribbling away in little pink notebooks and keeping all these secrets that I don't think even Phoebe knew the half of. And you were awkward and petty and cruel and dishonest and vindictive and I don't know what else.  
  
And I loved you, even then.  
  
I always have. I always will. I can't explain it. It's beyond my power to understand, let alone express. But there was always something there, always something stronger than I was, drawing me to you.  
  
That's the cruelest blow, I guess. I was resigned to my fate, I think, until you came in. And suddenly I was seeing orange blossoms, church bells, you in white, flowers in your hair…and it all got taken away. I don't want to leave you, Helga. I never did. And maybe you think it's cruel that I'm telling you all this when you can have nothing from it. Maybe you want nothing from it. But I just wanted to say that I loved you.  
  
And I want you to know that wherever you go, I'll be with you, Helga. I'll never leave you, no matter what. I want you to go on with your life. I know that you'll be free again soon. You're too strong to bow down to this. And I want you to live and be happy; to marry and have children and a brilliant career…or not, as you see fit. To do whatever will make you complete. Because there were always these pieces to you, these missing puzzle pieces.  
  
And I want you to find them. Call your parents. Call Phoebe. Go home to Brooklyn. Find your missing pieces. I'll be there to help you, I promise.  
  
I love you more than you can ever know.  
  
-Arnold  
  
  
  
  
  
What'd you think? Yes, I know…it was short. But once again, Eddie's fault. Not mine. It's gonna get exciting and chock full o' action in the next chapter, I promise. 


	12. Revenge

Author's Note: I promised and promised and promised, and I finally delivered. Here is the action, the excitement…oh, and Arnold's back! Actually, he wasn't supposed to get this whole chapter to himself, but he kinda snuck away with it. He's a sneaky little bugger, that Football Head. This was actually supposed to be up last night, but my computer…well, you know how computers are. Anyway…  
  
Chien, I don't think so…I don't plan on having any of the others come back. No offense to the others, I love them all (except Sid—he's evil) but I think I've had enough eerie coincidences already. Then again, who knows? These characters have a mind of their own…  
  
Houkanno Yuuhou…Well, Eddie's planning something. You'll see half of the plan in this chapter, and the other half in the next. And yes, that was me on Nadine's board, and I'm very flattered by your offer. I'd love to post at Gerald's Library. Just email me at TheYodels@aol.com with any outside info or put it in your next review (if you review). Thanks!  
  
Athena Lionfire16, you have a really cool name.  
  
Roxy, thank you, and yes, they ARE meant to be together!  
  
Everyone else, thanks so much for the reviews!  
  
Oh, BTW, gang? For a while now I've been like, "Hey, Lila isn't so bad. She can't help it if Arnold likes her." And now I just saw the episode where Arnold takes her to the Cheese Festival for the first time, and you know what? She is Evil Incarnate. She is the Anti-Christ. She is the biggest biz-natch the world of animation has to offer. Go Helga! (Waves little Helga flag.)  
  
Disclaimer: Hey Arnold! does not belong to me. Neither does "So Far Away," which belongs to Carol King and is one of the saddest songs I know. Have you ever seen The Virgin Suicides? It's a CREEPY movie, but the part where they played that song made me cry. Okay, now without further ado (Just what exactly IS 'ado,' anyway? Is it what a dog makes or something? Lol) Chapter 12!  
  
  
  
Part XII  
  
"Revenge"  
  
Arnold stayed on the roof for a long time after she left, wandering aimlessly around, hands shoved deep in his pockets, head thrown back to gaze at the stars, stopping only to call Gerald and pour his heart out—briefly. He knew it wasn't the best idea to walk around on a roof without looking where he was going, but at this point he didn't really think he'd feel it if he feel. The stars, which he had always loved, seemed cold and small and impersonal tonight.  
  
Moseying behind the shed on the roof, he stumbled over something. Looking down, he saw that it was the bucket of ice he had stuck a bottle of champagne in earlier to celebrate their…their what? To celebrate Helga. But she was gone.  
  
With a bitter sigh, he bent down and picked up the bucket and the two glasses next to it, carrying them back over to the skylight. Looking down at his room, he stopped. He didn't want to go in there just yet.  
  
He sat down by the skylight, but that was no good. It still smelled like her. Jumping up, he walked away from the spot, but the scent still clung to him, poisoning him. He was having trouble breathing. He tossed his jacket off, loosened his tie, undid the first few buttons on his shirt. That was better, a little.  
  
I need a drink, he thought to himself bitterly. Arnold, bitter? Never. But he was. Picking up the champagne, he popped it open, watching it fizz up over his hand and then run away. Disappearing. Like she had.  
  
Hadn't she been doing that to him since day one, though? Opening up, warming to him, intoxicating him with her vivacity and her intelligence and her compassion and her…he didn't know what else. And then the moment he thought he understood her, the moment he got close, she turned and ran. And who knew how long it would be before she opened up again?  
  
He poured himself a glass of champagne, watching the bubbles rise in the pale golden liquid as music floated from his room. So far away…Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?…It would be so fine to see your face at my door…Doesn't help to know that you're just time away…Long ago I reached you and there you stood…Holding you again could do me good…Oh, how I wish I could…But you're so far away…  
  
But that was Helga for you, he thought as he downed another glass. Smile at her and she thinks you're up to something. Tell her she's beautiful and she starts looking for the weapon. Tell her you love her…and she runs.  
  
One more song about moving along the highway…Can't say much of anything that's new…If I could only work this life out my way…I'd rather spend it being close to you…But you're so far away…  
  
Arnold suddenly fell into a memory of Helga that he hadn't thought of in years. It was their senior prom. He had taken Rhonda, basically because she had asked and he didn't want to make her feel bad. Hey, they were friends, right? And he had to admit that she looked fantastic in a sleek, designer black gown. She looked mature, sophisticated…out of his league.  
  
Of course she had been prom queen, and Gerald king…Arnold smiled a little, remembering how Phoebe had steamed as Rhonda and Gerald danced. But Gerald winked at her over Rhonda's back and she'd melted, as always. Arnold wished things were that easy with Helga. She'd probably deck him if he winked at her.  
  
Anyway, prom had wound down and Arnold was feeling a little melancholy. The others were all going into Manhattan to some club and then heading over to Rhonda's house to drink and pass out at six in the morning, but he felt like being alone. He had had the limo drop him off a few blocks away from the boarding house, as it was a beautiful night and he felt like taking a walk.  
  
Suddenly he heard music—faint, but definitely there. He walked towards it, drawn to the song. Didn't he know that from somewhere? Traveling around sure gets me down and lonely…Nothing else to do but close my mind…I sure hope the road don't come to own me…There's so many dreams I've yet to find…But you're so far away…  
  
He found himself standing in front of Helga's house, looking up at her open window. She was sitting in the window, despite the fact that it was two in the morning, a notepad on her lap, staring up at the starlit sky. Dressed simply in a white tank top and loose white cotton pants, her ivory skin shining in the moonlight, she looked like something ethereal and perfect. Her pale golden hair was gathered up in a messy knot at the back of her head, and for a moment, the curve of her neck was possibly the most beautiful thing Arnold had ever seen. The music washed over him as she looked down at her pad and wrote something down.  
  
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?…Everybody around me looks different when you are away…  
  
As Arnold watched her, she sighed wistfully, blowing a strand of sunshine hair from her eyes, and closed the notebook. She stood up, and he was entranced by the line of her silhouette in the moonlight as she shook out her hair, letting it tumble over her pale shoulders. She walked out of sight, and in a minute the music went off, followed by the light.  
  
Arnold stared at the black square that was her window for a moment before shaking himself out of it. Walking down the street, he puzzled over something. For the first time in his life, he thought, he had touched real, true beauty.  
  
Arnold came back to the present somewhat reluctantly, as the present was a half-empty bottle of champagne and an aching heart. Still that same song played, faintly through his open skylight, and he realized why he had always loved this song. It was hers.  
  
You're so far away…Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?…It would be so fine to see your face at my door…Doesn't help to know you're so far away…  
  
Suddenly, inexplicably, his old optimism surged to the fore again. She loved him. She did. She had admitted it—Helga, the girl who had never told him the truth in her life when a lie or two could do just as nicely. The girl who would rather endure thumbscrews, the rack, and nonstop Barry Manilow than confess something like that. Well, maybe not Barry Manilow. Still…  
  
She loved him. That was all that mattered. Once she had thought it over, once she had realized the truth…she was a smart girl, and for all her…evading the truth…she could see through a lie in a New York second. She would realize that he had been telling the truth when he said he loved her, and she would come back to him.  
  
But he wasn't willing to sit there and wait. He would find out where she lived…Phoebe knew, he could call her and ask. Then he would go out to California, out to her house, and tell her again. And if she ran away again, he'd follow her. Again. And again and again and again until he proved to her that he loved her. Yeah, perhaps it was a little bit of an irrational plan, but no one who's had half a bottle of champagne in less than half an hour and can't hold their liquor in the slightest has ever been rational.  
  
He climbed unsteadily through the skylight, leaving the champagne, bucket, and glasses out on the roof. Not bothering to lock the skylight, or even close it all the way, he stumbled over to his bed. He would call Phoebe in a minute…he just needed to lie down for a minute…just a minute…Closing his eyes, Arnold sank into merciful darkness.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Considering how deep a stupor Arnold had been in when he fell asleep, it was surprising that such a muffled sound could have woken him up.  
  
But it did—a sound so faint he wasn't sure if he had heard it all when he woke, perfectly sober and with only a faint headache. He had always been lucky…maybe it was that luck that saved him by waking up just at that moment. But he almost went back to sleep…  
  
…until he heard it again. There it was. A footstep, faint and muffled, on the roof. Hurried, heavy breathing, as if someone large was trying to step lightly. The moon had gone behind the clouds, so he couldn't see very well, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark he realized that someone was standing at the opening to his skylight.  
  
He lay absolutely still, not wanting to give away the fact that he was awake. Obviously his nighttime visitor was not exactly…on the up-and-up. But who was it? A cat burglar? A gang member? And what did they want?  
  
The person, a big, bulky man, felt around for the ladder and slowly lowered himself down, landing on Arnold's bed. Arnold felt the mattress move to accommodate the new weight. The intruder quickly stepped off the bed, obviously feeling shaky being on such an insecure surface.  
  
Arnold waited, heart racing, until he felt the man looming directly over him. Drawing on the self defense training his grandmother had given him years ago, he moved. Kicking the blanket off his body, he threw a punch that connected solidly with the attacker's solar plexus.  
  
The larger man let out a "whoosh!" as the air was knocked out of him and staggered back. Arnold leapt to his feet and advanced on him. He kicked, but the attacker, moving surprisingly quickly, ducked under the blow.  
  
Arnold felt a sharp lance of pain across his shoulder. Instinctively, he kicked again, and felt more than saw his adversary fall. He dove after him somewhat recklessly and was met with another flare of pain in his abdomen. He reached for the weapon his enemy had, heedless of the danger.  
  
A knife. His fingers closed around it, partially grasping the hilt and partly the blade. Ignoring the pain as the sharp edge bit deeper into his fingers, he wrenched it out of the other man's grasp as they rolled across his floor, knocking over furniture, crashing into walls. The intruder had his other hand on Arnold's throat and was pushing, hard, cutting off his air. Arnold was having trouble breathing…  
  
There. He had the knife. Quickly, he brought the butt down heavily on the man's head. He felt his attacker go weak and drop off into unconsciousness. As his grip loosened on Arnold's throat, Arnold's vision cleared and his breathing grew less labored. Staggering to his feet, he made his way to the light switch and flipped it on.  
  
The room was flooded with light, making him blink painfully. When he could see, he surveyed the wreckage of the battle. Most of his furniture was knocked over; several things were broken. His attacker lay prone in the middle of the room, eyes closed as if in sleep. He was considerably larger than Arnold and slightly overweight, with disreputable clothing and three- day stubble, and looked to be in his late thirties. The knife, covered in crimson blood, lay on the floor beside him.  
  
"Arnold!" his mother cried. He looked up to see his parents, grandparents, and the boarders clustered in the doorway and on the stairs to his room. "What happened? Are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine, Mom," he said, still trying to figure out what had happened himself. He had almost been murdered…but why?  
  
"Fine!" she repeated. "Look at youself!"  
  
He looked down. He was still in his dress pants and shirt, the latter of which was now soaked with blood. There was a tear in his shirt at his stomach and his right shoulder, and the fingers of his right hand were deeply lacerated.  
  
"Okay, so maybe not *fine,*" he admitted.  
  
"I'll go get the first aid kit, Kimba," his grandmother assured him from the stairs. "Those jungle savages can be pretty nasty fighters." She turned and headed towards the kitchen. Arnold hoped she would return with a real first aid kit and not a ham or a sweater or a socket wrench set.  
  
Before anyone else could move or speak, there was a shrill ring—a cell phone. All of the boarders looked around, searching for the location of the sound. Then Arnold realized where it was coming from—the intruder. Silently, he walked over and searched the man's pockets until he found the phone. He pressed Send.  
  
"Did you get him?" a harsh voice asked brusquely.  
  
What should he say? "Yeah," he grunted, pitching his voice low.  
  
"Good. Better take the pictures to prove to Eddie he's dead," the voice continued. Eddie. So he was behind this. Arnold should have known.  
  
"I took care of the girl," the voice continued, and Arnold's heart froze in his chest. What had they done to Helga? "Remember, we're meeting Eddie at the third dig. See you then." There was a beep, and the line went dead.  
  
Arnold's mind shot into overdrive. He had been marked for death. Eddie had sent these guys to kill him. So…they must have…His mind balked at the thought.  
  
Helga. They must have killed Helga.  
  
Arnold plunged into an abyss so vast he couldn't even feel his descent. Helga was dead. Dead. She was gone. And it was all his fault. If he hadn't said anything, or better yet, if he had convinced her that he loved her, she wouldn't have left. He could have protected her. But he hadn't, and she was dead.  
  
"They killed her," he said in a flat, monotone voice.  
  
"What?" his father asked, concerned.  
  
"Helga. They killed her. They killed her!" Arnold's voice broke and he threw himself at the wall, beating on it, blood flying everywhere. He kicked at it, threw himself bodily against it, raging hysterically and impotently. "They killed her!" he screamed again, his voice hoarse.  
  
He felt a hand gingerly touch his shoulder. "Don't touch me!" he screamed. "Don't touch me! Don't…" He collapsed to the floor, weak from his hysterics. "Helga…" he sobbed brokenly.  
  
Suddenly something inside him turned to steel. He stopped crying and got to his feet, clenching his fists, relishing the pain in his right hand as his nails dug into his wound. He set his jaw and headed for the door of his room.  
  
"Arnold, where are you going?" his mother asked.  
  
He looked at the boarders, and Phil involuntarily took a step back. Sam and Katie hadn't seen their son grow up, but he had, and he had never seen that look in Arnold's eyes before.  
  
"I'm going to find Edward Niles," Arnold said, coolly, levelly.  
  
"I'm going to find him, and I'm going to kill him." 


	13. Pain

Author's Note: Okay, before you send out the posse, yes, this chapter is short. But there was no way to make it longer. I didn't want to have anything else happen yet—to leave you guys hanging just a little bit. I've got more under my sleeve, don't worry. And thank you all for the reviews…my new goal is 200, but I don't know if I can achieve that…I only have five more chapters in this story, tops. But we'll see…  
  
zazou pie, I love CAPITALS too.  
  
Mickey, Cambridge is also the area of Boston where Harvard is located, and saying "Cambridge" is the snobby way of saying somebody went to Harvard…it was just a little joke. And I guess I didn't make this clear enough, but the guys don't fall for her because of her poetry. They fall for her because she's gorgeous and sexy and seductive and goes after them. The affair gives her fuel to write poetry that reads like love poems because something in her lover reminds her of Arnold, and her lover winds up thinking that she's fallen in love with them, while they are infatuated with her. So she leaves, she breaks their hearts, they get over it because, after all, it was only an infatuation, and eventually they wind up being friends. A cruel but efficient system. But Helga can't do that anymore…  
  
As for Arnold being out for blood…well, just wait and see. And I'm really glad everybody liked the Gerald/Helga/bold kid thing…it's my baby.  
  
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, Hey Arnold! is not mine. Well, fortunately for the characters, because they don't have to go through the kinds of things I put them through…  
  
  
  
Part XIII  
  
"Pain"  
  
Helga let the letter drop from trembling fingers. She had read it twice, three times, a dozen times, and it still said the same thing.  
  
Arnold loved her. He wasn't grateful for anything, he wasn't obligated to love her…actually, considering their background when he wrote the letter, he was more obligated to hate her. But he didn't. He loved her. He was in love with her.  
  
This was before she freed him, before she saved his life, before she gave him his parents back. No thankfulness was clouding his emotion, no relief making him swing towards her. Even in the pits of despair, he was thinking of her.  
  
What had she done?  
  
Helga felt herself overcome with remorse. He had told her the truth, the honest-to-God truth, and she had rejected him, had screamed at him and left him standing on his roof alone. What kind of person was she, to do that to the man she loved? Who did she think she was?  
  
She had to go to him, immediately, and beg him for forgiveness. To fall on her knees and kiss his feet if necessary, but she had to go. Not even to win his love back, but just to make amends for the horrible thing she had done. She knew better than anyone the fear and sting of rejection from the one she loved.  
  
But first she had to tell Phoebe, and Gerald. She picked up the letter. Scrambling off her bed, she ran downstairs, waving the letter. "Phoebe! Gerald!" she called, in her excitement not caring if they were already sleeping. She ran into the living room. "Phoebe! Ger—"  
  
They were on their knees by the sofa as she burst in, tied at their ankles and wrists bound behind their backs, thick, dirty gags in their mouths. Gerald had a trickle of blood showing at his temple. They looked up when she came in, their eyes warning her back, full of fear. A burly hit man stood behind them.  
  
Helga took a step back, right into someone's arms—someone who smelled rancid, and was obviously much larger than she was. A rank, dirty hand was clasped over her mouth, another arm wrapped around her torso, pinning her arms to her sides. Warm, stagnant breath hissed in her ear.  
  
Helga wasn't one to go quietly. Ignoring her revulsion, she opened her mouth and bit down, hard, into her captor's hand, breaking skin and wrinkling her nose as she tasted blood. At the same time, she stomped down hard on her captor's foot and was rewarded with a cracking noise as her stiletto heel met a worn Nike.  
  
"Dyagh!" the man grunted incoherently, letting her go. She spun away and ran towards the phone by the television, planning to call 911. She picked up the phone and turned to face the intruders.  
  
The one who had been standing behind Phoebe and Gerald was still there, calmly holding a gun to Gerald's temples.  
  
"She's next," he said, nodding towards Phoebe, who looked petrified.  
  
Helga knew what he meant. She held on to the phone a minute longer, just to make it look like she wasn't completely out of control of this situation. Then she replaced it and walked over to the men.  
  
The one she had bitten quickly, violently tied her arms together. "I thought kidnapping a girl would be easy," he snarled, binding her hands so tight she almost lost circulation. "Eddie said…"  
  
Eddie. So he was behind this. Her rage threatened to boil over. She should have killed him when she had the chance.  
  
"Eddie said she would be a challenge, if you had been listening," the other replied, as coolly as he had spoken to Helga. "Not much of one, though. Women. They're all soft."  
  
Helga's blood boiled, as she knew he had intended, and she glared at him. "Untie my hands and put down your gun and you'll see how 'soft' I am," she shot at him.  
  
The man shook his head, smiling darkly. "Tut tut. Soliciting is illegal in the state of Massachusetts, don't you know that, Ms. Geraldine?"  
  
Helga lunged towards him, and only the guy she had bitten restrained her from jumping the speaker. "My name is Helga Geraldine Pataki," she spat finally. "And I'll thank you to remember that!"  
  
The man arched an eyebrow at her. "You're hardly in a position to make demands, but I'll indulge you, Ms. Pataki." He pulled out a cell phone. "Now shut up."  
  
She watched, almost mad with fury, as he punched out a number and waited for someone to pick up. "Did you get him?" he asked. "Good." He mumbled something else, but Helga was more concerned with Gerald's injury.  
  
'Are you okay?' she mouthed to him, meeting his eyes. He understood, and nodded. Well, that was something, at least.  
  
"I took care of the girl," the man on the phone continued. "Remember, we're meeting Eddie at the third dig. See you then." He hung up and grinned evilly at Helga.  
  
"Well, so much for Lover Boy," he smirked at her. "We took care of him, too."  
  
Helga scoffed. "I freed him once. What makes you think I can't do it again?"  
  
He laughed. "No one's freeing him from where he is now," he informed her, obviously delighting in being the one to tell her this information. "You see, Ms. Pataki, he wasn't judged important enough to kidnap. We took care of him a more…efficient way.  
  
"Arnold, your little Lover Boy…is dead."  
  
There was a muffled scream from behind Phoebe's gag, and Gerald slumped against the sofa.  
  
Helga's mind shot into overdrive. Her mind balked at the thought.  
  
Arnold. They had killed Arnold.  
  
Helga plunged into an abyss so vast she couldn't even feel her descent. Arnold was dead. Dead. He was gone. And it was all her fault. If she had only believed him, if she hadn't been so proud, if she had read his letter earlier, she wouldn't have left. She could have protected him. But she hadn't, and he was dead.  
  
She didn't rage. She didn't cry. She was surprised at herself, because usually tears and anger were two things that came rather easily to her. But this pain cut too deeply to be expressed. She felt a raw, aching pain, as if her soul was crying out for air. Her world, not so long ago a happy, warm place, was an endless void.  
  
Something inside of her turned to steel. Let them take her to Eddie. She would settle with him then. She would make him pay. She had always known that she had the capacity for a cruelty far greater than anything she had ever inflicted upon Arnold or any of her childhood friends. But from her years as a bully and recent stint as a heartbreaker, she knew how to make someone suffer. Killing Eddie would have been too easy, too obvious. She had a better plan.  
  
And so she didn't protest as she was dragged outside and shoved into the back of a van, as they drove away from Phoebe and Gerald's house, leaving its occupants still tied and gagged on the floor. She watched the sky as it began to lighten, as a cold day dawned upon them. The sun no longer warmed her, even spiritually, but it was okay. She wouldn't be on this earth long. She would exact Arnold's revenge on Eddie—and then she would go to be with Arnold. Maybe then she could spend eternity begging forgiveness.  
  
She was alone again, but it was okay. She was used to it. And she wouldn't be alone for long.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
Eddie put down the phone, a satisfied smile on his face. Arnold was gone, dead, out of the picture, and good riddance. And his sweet Helga was on her way to him. And then, oh, how he would settle with her. He would make her pay. He knew how to make someone suffer. Killing her would have been too easy, too obvious. He had a better plan.  
  
He chuckled darkly, watching the tape of the TV appearance he had first seen her on, muted. She was so young, so fresh, so beautiful…so alive. He watched her smile and shake her hair back, full of life, like a beam of sunshine trapped in human form.  
  
The burn on his arm had scarred over now. He ran a finger over it, relishing the thought of the pain he would inflict on her. He had plans for Helga Geraldine.  
  
  
  
  
  
Yes, I know it's short. I'm sorry! But at least you all know now that Helga's not dead! 


	14. Journey

Author's Note: I'm so sorry! This one is short, too! But, oh, what you have in store makes it all worth it, I promise. There are exciting things to come…I have it all planned out. I want to write more tonight, but I have an essay for English…if I finish that in time, I'll hook you up. Oh, and BTW, I GOT INTO BARNARD! I know you probably don't care, but it was my first choice college, so I'm psyched. I probably won't be able to afford it, but at least I got in, right?  
  
Wow, the reviews were amazing this time…guess Helga, um, not being dead, is a big hit around here. Oh, and JESS, don't worry…I may kill somebody (operative word being "may") but it sure as heck won't be Gerald or Phoebe. Houkanno Yuuhou (wowzers! I spelled it right first try!), I couldn't find "You're Breaking My Heart" anywhere. Could you hook me up with the lyrics? (Oh, and I agree that "The Virgin Suicides" is a beautiful movie—it just freaked me out really bad and I have no idea why.)  
  
In general, thank you all so much for your reviews.  
  
And I know I said a couple of chapters back that none of the other characters would be showing up…Well, that lunatic Curly made a liar out of me. He can be such a jerk that way. Sorry.  
  
Disclaimer: I know, I know, it's disgusting, but no matter how many nasty letters I write in crayon to Nickelodeon, they STILL won't sell me the rights to Hey Arnold! Go figure, right? Anyway, it ain't mine.  
  
  
  
Part XIV  
  
"Journey"  
  
By the time Gertie had cleaned and bandaged Arnold's wounds, he was thinking a bit more clearly. Thankfully the cuts had been shallow, and he didn't need stitches. Actually, his fingers should've had a few stitches in them, but he was in too much of a hurry to deal with the hospital red tape.  
  
His need for blood had subsided somewhat. He wished it hadn't, as it had been the only thing that was even slightly filling the horrible, aching void inside of him—the place where Helga belonged. Still, he was going after Eddie. Maybe to kill him, maybe to turn him in, maybe just to confront him. But he had to go.  
  
He knew just who to call, too. It seemed fitting that he should revenge Helga's death with someone who had grown up with both of them. He ushered the boarders downstairs and placed a call to the Gamelthorpe residence.  
  
Curly picked up on the seventh ring. "'Lo?" he asked groggily.  
  
"Curly? It's me. Arnold."  
  
Arnold heard Curly let out a gusty sigh. "Arnold? What is it? Do you know what time it is?"  
  
Arnold ignored the question. "I need you to fly me to Australia. Right now."  
  
"Australia? Why do you need to go to Australia? Arnold, it's the middle of the night, and—"  
  
"Helga's dead," Arnold interrupted.  
  
Curly paused. "What?"  
  
"Helga's dead," Arnold repeated, biting back the tremble in his voice.  
  
"Helga Pataki?" Curly asked, coming fully awake now.  
  
With as little emotion as possible, Arnold told Curly the story, from his own imprisonment to Helga's, from her daring escape to the night on the roof, and ending with the events of just half an hour ago.  
  
"I'll be there in ten minutes," Curly promised.  
  
Arnold hung up the phone, feeling slightly better now that something was being done. He grabbed a small duffel bag and threw a couple of clean shirts and some socks and boxers into it. Stepping over the attacker's body, still unconscious on the floor, he leafed through the papers on his desk until he found the picture of his parents that had gotten him through his childhood. He slipped it into his pocket.  
  
He reached for a shelf over the desk, smiling faintly as he remembered how he used to need a chair to get things down from there. He brought down a shoebox with a thin film of dust on it, that he brushed off before opening the box.  
  
It was crammed full of pictures, most from between pre-school and graduation. He sorted through them until he found an envelope, his own untidy scrawl across the front—"Senior Portraits." Dumping them out on a desk, he shuffled through them. There was Gerald, eyebrows raised, cool as usual. Phoebe, smiling demurely. Rhonda, with perfect hair and makeup and a grin only seven and a half years of orthodonture could produce. Curly, his eyes unreadable behind those thick glasses. Even his own picture, topped off with that faded blue hat.  
  
There she was, at the bottom of the pile, under Nadine and Harold. Helga. He stared at the picture, feeling a coldness settling into his bones. Her beautiful hair was loose and tumbled over her shoulders, slightly messy. Those blue eyes were solemn, intelligent, smiling ever so slightly though her lips were perfectly serious. She looked so young, so completely…well, innocent had never been the word to describe Helga. But…new. She looked new, and untried, and soft.  
  
And Eddie had destroyed that. The coldness spread throughout Arnold's veins, reaching to the tips of his fingers and toes. Eddie would pay. How, Arnold wasn't sure, but he would pay nonetheless.  
  
Arnold slipped the picture of Helga into his pocket and headed downstairs, grabbing his toothbrush from the bathroom as he went. He found the boarders gathered in the living room, looking miserable. His mother was crying into his father's shoulder.  
  
He felt another stab of pain. He knew that his parents had loved Helga like a daughter—all of the boarders had come to love her, the few days she had been there. She was very lovable—he knew that better than anyone. He stood there awkwardly, almost jealous of their ability to express the pain he felt so deeply.  
  
The doorbell rang. Arnold went to answer it. True to his word, there was Curly, dressed for flight. His childhood friend had changed a lot since their youth, trading in the thick glasses for contacts years ago, when he had become a pilot, and abandoning the bowl cut hairdo. The ADD and near- hysteria he had been afflicted with had also been reined under control in high school and college, calming him considerably.  
  
"I'm sorry, man," Curly said sympathetically, opening his arms. The two men hugged, Arnold once again biting back the pain. It wasn't that he was ashamed. He just knew that if he started to break down now, he wouldn't be able to stop. He wanted to wait until after he had settled with Eddie, so that he could mourn Helga properly.  
  
When they broke apart, though, Arnold saw that Curly's eyes were bright and red-rimmed. He and Helga had been pretty close in high school—the shock must be hitting him hard.  
  
"You ready?" Curly asked, nodding to his car.  
  
"Just a minute," Arnold replied. He walked back into the living room to say his good-byes.  
  
Mr. Hyunh, Ernie, and Oskar all patted him on the back, muttering "good- bye" and "good luck" and other awkward platitudes. Suzie hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, her brow furrowed with worry. Some might think it strange that the same boarders had been living there so long, but they were part of the family. How could they leave?  
  
Arnold turned to his grandfather. "Call the cops when I leave," he said. "You can tell them anything they need to know. I just can't be detained by them."  
  
"I understand," Phil said, nodding sagely. Suddenly he grabbed Arnold and hugged him, ruffling his hair like he had when Arnold was a boy. "Be careful, Short Man."  
  
Arnold smiled crookedly. "Any advice?"  
  
Phil smiled back, sadly. "Don't eat raspberries."  
  
Gertie was next. She hugged Arnold, then handed him something.  
  
"What's this?" Arnold asked, looking at the object, which was small, round, and bronze, and attached to a long leather thong.  
  
"It's something I got when I stayed in the monastery in Tibet," Gertie explained. "It's a mini gong." She flicked a fingernail against it, gently, and a soft chime rang out. "It's for luck. Be brave, young Kimba," she said, touching Arnold's face gently. Arnold nodded, then slipped the thong over his neck.  
  
Now his parents. It was hard to say good-bye to people he had only seen for less than a week. "I'm sorry," he told them softly. "I have to go."  
  
His father nodded. "We know." He hugged him, solemnly, as did his mother, still crying. No further words were needed. Arnold was sure the thought of stopping him by force had crossed some of their minds, but he also knew that they were aware of the impossibility of that. Arnold was bound to do this, just as he and Helga were bound by ties that Eddie could not break, not if he killed them both.  
  
He walked out the door and down the stoop. Curly was waiting by the car. When he saw Arnold approaching, he got into the driver's seat.  
  
Arnold stopped before getting into the car. He looked back at the Sunset Arms, his home for the past twenty-odd years. Would he ever see it again? More tragically still, did it even matter?  
  
He got into the car. Curly glanced at him, put the car in drive, and set off. Arnold kept his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead of him, not looking back. For better or worse, he was committed.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
They drove out to the airfield, where Curly's small biplane was kept. Arnold wouldn't trust anyone else to fly him in a dinky little machine like this, but Curly was a born pilot. The sun was just beginning to rise over the Atlantic as they took off, heading away from the light, towards the dark west.  
  
"We'll refuel in California," Curly told Arnold as they sat in the cockpit. "We'll need the pit stop, anyway, because it's a long flight from there to Australia. How'd you know it was Australia, anyway?"  
  
"The guy on the phone said the third dig," Arnold explained. "I've been competing with Eddie, archaeologically speaking, long enough to know where most of his main digs are. The first is in Egypt. The second is in South America. The third is in Australia. I know exactly where it is, so don't worry about finding it." As he said the last sentence, a huge yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw.  
  
"Why don't you get some sleep, Arnold?" Curly offered. "You'll need it, most likely."  
  
Arnold nodded slowly and closed his eyes. He thought he would have trouble sleeping, but to his surprise he dropped off immediately.  
  
He was in a church, a huge, Gothic church, in a white suit. He was standing at the altar, next to a priest, and there was a huge crowd of people assembled in the audience—everyone he had ever known, it seemed…his parents and his grandparents and the boarders, the Patakis, Gerald and Phoebe and Curly and Rhonda and all the rest, Mr. Simmons and the Jolly Olly Man and Stoop Kid and Ruth MacDougal and the Wittenburgs and the real Cecile and…oh, just everybody. Everyone was in white or bright spring colors, pale pastels. An organ was playing "Here Comes the Bride," and pale afternoon sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows.  
  
A lady all in white entered the chapel, her face shrouded in a virgin's veil. He knew who it was, of course. It was the dream he had had since childhood, the dream of a wedding—but he had never known the woman's identity. Now he knew.  
  
She walked slowly towards him, her face hidden. His heart was overflowing with joy and expectation. She reached the altar, turned to face him, and for the first time in years of dreaming this, he could see her face. It was Helga behind the veil, Helga's blue eyes and sunshine hair, Helga pale as milk…  
  
…too pale. Suddenly she swooned, and he only just caught her.  
  
"Bring her over here!" someone cried. He picked her up in her pure white wedding gown and carried her over to the bed that had suddenly appeared in the chapel.  
  
But it wasn't a bed anymore, it was a coffin—a somber mahogany coffin, the red velvet lining setting off the whiteness of her skin. He looked down and found himself in black, everyone was at black. The wedding had become a funeral.  
  
He looked down at Helga. She held a white rose in her hands. The thorns were pricking her fingers and blood was flowing, staining the pristine petals of the rose crimson…  
  
"Arnold!"  
  
Arnold jerked awake, clammy with sweat, his face damp with tears. Curly was looking at him anxiously.  
  
"You okay, man?"  
  
Arnold felt his heart hammering inside his chest. He looked at Curly.  
  
"Yeah," he said, calming slightly. "Yeah, I'm okay."  
  
Curly looked concerned, but didn't say anything more. It was then that Arnold noticed that they were heading for land.  
  
"We're here?" he asked.  
  
"Yup," Curly said. "We'll take a piss and have a snack while they refuel the plane, then we're off to Australia."  
  
Arnold looked down at the tarmac with wild eyes. "Fine," he said softly. "That's fine."  
  
He looked up through the bubble-glass of the cockpit window. The sky was a strange blue, as the sun had been following them all the way to California. It looked like her eyes. "Helga, I'm on my way."  
  
  
  
Trust me, this chapter kinda sucked, but next chapter is gonna get GOOD…albeit a little violent and depraved. My mind can truly work itself into some sick convolutions, but all in the name of good writing, mind you. Please review! I only need 55 more to make my goal! (I am so not getting that many, but it's nice to dream…) 


	15. Torment

Author's Note: Would you look at that? Another chapter already? Will wonders never cease! Anyway, I just saw the April Fools' episode, and it inspired me no end. But, um…what's going on? Rhonda has boobs, and they're all obviously older, and I think Stinky and Sid have new voices, and Helga is ten now, I guess, since Arnold said her birthday was last week, and, um…Arnold and Helga like, had sex. They totally did. That tango was…it was raunchy. It was suggestive. It was kinda hot. I know, I know, I have a dirty mind.  
  
Speaking of which, I was far too lazy to change the rating, but I'm really pushing it with this chapter. I had to get quite creative to stay away from profanity and explicit sexual words, but it's still a little more mature. So if it'll bother you, stay away…then again, how do you know if it'll bother you if you don't read it? It's not that bad. You know what? Just flame me if it's too much, and I'll change the rating. I won't change the story, though. It was appropriate, and it fits Eddie's character—and no one can accuse me of being OOC with HIM—he's mine.  
  
Disclaimer: STILL not mine. Is there no justice in this world? I ask you.  
  
  
  
Part XV  
  
"Torment"  
  
Helga let herself doze off during the ride in the van, and later the flight. She slept for longer than she thought possible, but it was better than being awake to feel the awful void Arnold's death had left in her. She felt drained, and why shouldn't she? Her reason for living was gone; the love that had fanned the fire of her poetry had been quenched. Unconsciousness was preferable.  
  
She awoke when they touched down in—wherever they were, and she was roughly jostled off the plane, still with her hands tied. They were not in an airport, as they had not taken a commercial plane. They were on a wide, grassy plane, strangely alien and yet somehow familiar. Helga wasn't sure what this place was, as no civilization was around to pinpoint it for her.  
  
In the distance, the grass petered out to dusty flatlands, and there was some kind of full-scale excavation going on down there. Tents dotted the landscape like canvas mushrooms, and people walked back and forth, digging, carrying things, conversing. They were obviously at some kind of archaeological dig—she should have known that Eddie fancied himself an archaeologist.  
  
She was made to walk far faster than she wanted, in the heat and with her hands bound behind her and rough hands on her shoulders to prevent her from running. They led her across the fields, to the largest tent in the cluster. She was ushered inside.  
  
The tent was sparse—after all, how many furnishings can a tent have? There was a straight-backed wooden chair in the dead center of it that she was forced to sit down on. Her hands were unbound and retied to the chair. Pride prevented her from struggling, though she cursed her captors in colorful and shameless language.  
  
After tying her, they left her there. She had barely a chance to try and wriggle her way out of her bindings when Eddie entered. It was strange. He looked the same as the last time they had crossed paths. She would have thought that killing the most wonderful creature the sun had ever shone upon would change someone's appearance.  
  
"You bastard," she spat out upon seeing him. "You disgusting, despicable, low-life piece of maggot-ridden flesh. How dare you presume to come into my presence?"  
  
He chuckled darkly. "Helga, darling, you'll wear yourself out. Please, there will be plenty of time to curse me before I'm through with you—and bless me."  
  
"Don't hold your breath for my blessing, because you'll never have it," Helga snarled, pulling so tightly at her ropes that they cut into her wrists. She felt her hands grow sticky with blood. "You killed the man I love."  
  
Eddie looked mildly surprised. "Arnold?" he asked. "You loved him? I thought it was a casual flirtation."  
  
Her glowered deepened, if it was possible. "Try not to reveal how incredible brainless you are, you revolting excuse for a creation of nature," she warned him. "And don't you dare say his name. You're not fit to say it. You're not fit to lick the dog crap off his shoes, you pathetic, foul, impotent turd."  
  
At least one of those words hit home, because Eddie stiffened. "I would watch my mouth, if I were you," he informed her tersely.  
  
"What do I care?" Helga said. "He was my reason for living! Do what you will, you lump of excrement, because I won't feel it." Her voice rose as her insults became more creative. "You idiot. You honestly thought I would ever come to you voluntarily? The only reason I would ever go near you would be to spit on your rotting corpse and dance on your grave." She was screaming now, red in the face. "You are no man, not even a human being. You're just a sad, stinking excuse for a walking, talking blob of putrescence! I hope you get ravaged by a mad goat and then slowly crushed beneath a cement mixer. You'll go straight to hell, where you can be reunited with the whore that is your mother and the warthog that is your father—!"  
  
Eddie had been growing redder and more angry with every word. At the last comment, she smashed her across the face with the back of his hand. She felt a stinging pain in her eye and cheekbone, but she ignored it.  
  
"Go ahead, Eddie, hit me. If that's the only way to make yourself feel better about your complete and utter lack of manhood, go ahead. It doesn't hurt, anyway."  
  
He smiled, and now she shuddered inwardly. Nobody smiled like that unless they were insane.  
  
"Oh, don't worry," he purred darkly. "I'll make you hurt before I'm through."  
  
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box of cigarettes and a lighter. As he lit up a cigarette, Helga felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She knew exactly what he was going to do.  
  
He blew a smoke ring into her face. "Turnabout is fair play, my sweet," he said maliciously, before shoving the red, glowing end of the cigarette into the soft, defenseless flesh of her lower arm and holding it there.  
  
Helga had thought that she was beyond pain, with Arnold's death, but she had been wrong. It hurt, more than anything she had ever felt except that death. She smelled her own flesh burning, the pungent scent mixing with the smell of tobacco smoke. Every nerve in her body was concentrated on the searing, screaming pain in her arm.  
  
And yet she didn't scream, didn't cry out. She set her jaw as she trembled and turned pale with pain, but her lips issued no sound, her eyes no tears. He would not triumph over her.  
  
After what was only a few seconds, but felt like much longer, Eddie removed the cigarette. Helga felt the pain even sharper as relatively cold air rushed across the wound. She couldn't even see it, as that part of her arm was too far down and behind her.  
  
"Is that all you got?" she asked finally, her voice full of false bravado.  
  
He shook his head, smiling faintly. "Oh, no," he said silkily. "There's much more to come. Much more."  
  
She knew what he was insinuating, what he was after. It had almost happened to her a few times, but her own cunning and self-defense know-how had saved her from many a sticky situation. Here, she feared, they were of no avail.  
  
Eddie pulled a knife out of an ankle sheath. Setting it in the hollow of her throat, he pressed down, just hard enough to break skin. He drew the knife down, cutting through the material of her shirt but leaving her bra intact, slitting open just the top layer of skin from her throat to just below her navel, except the space between her breasts that her bra covered, so that blood trickled slowly down her torso. Her shirt fell open, revealing her lacy pink bra, a little pink bow in the center, and her bare, pale skin, stark white against the crimson blood.  
  
"What's this?" Eddie asked, fingering the bow.  
  
She smiled haughtily at him, tossing her hair back. "It's for Arnold," she declared proudly. "A reminder of him."  
  
Eddie's face contorted and he ripped the bow off, yanking her body forward and letting her slam back painfully into the chair. He let the bow drop to the floor and ground it under his heel.  
  
Turning his attention back to Helga, he raised the knife to her throat. She immediately tensed up, warily eyeing the blade as he brought it closer and closer to her neck. He placed the cold flat of the blade against her neck, smearing her throat with her own blood, careful not to cut her.  
  
"I could kill you right now." He seemed to expect her to fear that.  
  
"Why don't you?" she challenged. "It'll save you a lot of humiliation trying to break me…or get it up."  
  
His grip on the knife tightened, and for a moment she thought he would kill her. Then he relaxed and lowered the knife.  
  
Without speaking, he bent his head and kissed her, violently. She bit down on his lip, hard, until she drew blood, and he pulled back, grabbing his lip and staring at her.  
  
"I was the bully on the playground," she informed him coolly. "I can be just as violent as you can."  
  
He seemed unable to speak with rage. Reaching down, he ripped at her shirt, pulling it away. Helga tensed, knowing what was coming next. She didn't mind dying, but this was something she was no longer willing to give to anyone but Arnold—and certainly not to Eddie. She readied herself for the fight of her life.  
  
"Mr. Niles! A strange plane's landing in the airfield!" a voice called from outside.  
  
Something seemed to come over Eddie, calming him. "So go see who it is!" he replied.  
  
"Uh, Mr. Niles…I really think you ought to come see this yourself," the voice called back.  
  
Eddie sighed and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, dabbing at his still-bleeding lip. "Coming," he called. He looked back at Helga. "Don't go anywhere," he taunted, before walking out of the tent.  
  
"Mr. Niles, what happened to your lip?" Helga heard the voice ask as they walked away. Immediately, she began to struggle out of her bonds. She wondered faintly who could have landed in the airfield that would get that guy so worried.  
  
* * * * * * *  
  
"See that? That's the excavation site," Arnold informed Curly, pointing down at the tents that dotted the Australian landscape. "I guess you can land near all those other planes. Hopefully no one will take any notice."  
  
"I think they're taking notice," Curly replied as over a dozen armed men headed over to their planned landing site.  
  
Arnold thought for a minute. "Okay, here's what we'll do. You land. Maybe we can talk to them."  
  
Curly laughed. "I doubt it. How about this? I land. I'll taxi around a bunch and go behind a couple of other planes. I'll slow down, and you jump out and hide. Then I'll keep taxing around and distracting them, and you make your way over to the tents. Your guy is probably over there, sipping his Evian while these poor saps do his dirty work."  
  
"That could work too," Arnold admitted. "Okay, we'll try that. Are you sure you want to? Those guys have guns."  
  
Curly grinned recklessly, and Arnold thought he saw a bit of the old wild gleam in his eye. "Are you kidding, Arnold? They didn't call me Old Crazy Curly in flight school for nothing."  
  
"We called you that in elementary school, too," Arnold reminded him.  
  
"Oh, yeah." They touched down, and Curly taxied quickly behind some planes. "Ready?"  
  
"Yeah." Arnold opened the cockpit door.  
  
"Okay, I'm slowing down…Now!"  
  
Arnold leapt out of the door, falling the eight feet or so to the ground and rolling, absorbing the shock painfully. It hurt, but nothing seemed broken. He glanced up at the cockpit just in time to see Curly mouth 'good luck' before tearing after the armed men on the ground. Arnold shook his head fondly, then began to slink his way from plane to plane, heading towards the tents.  
  
When he reached the last plane, he checked to make sure no one was looking at him, then broke away from the plane and ran pell-mell for the tents. He covered the distance faster than he thought possible, aiming for the biggest tent, which was probably Eddie's personal tent. He burst in.  
  
Sitting tied to a chair in the dead center of the tent, struggling with her bonds, her shirt ripped off her body and her torso bloody, was Helga.  
  
She looked up as he came in, and they both froze, staring at each other. "Helga?" he whispered.  
  
"Arnold?" she mouthed back.  
  
Suddenly something broke in the tension and he was on his knees in front of her, kissing her as hard as he could, his hands buried in her buttery yellow hair. She kissed him back just as passionately, as hungrily, as they both had had a recent reminder of what they stood to loose.  
  
They came up for air, gasping desperately, Arnold still cupping her face in his hands.  
  
"I thought you were dead!" they both blurted out, then laughed, more for joy than the humor of the situation. Then they kissed again, joyously.  
  
"We've got to get out of here!" Arnold realized as they broke apart, again.  
  
"Yeah, no kidding," Helga replied. "This guy's a maniac." All thoughts of revenge were gone from both their minds—they were too wrapped up in the delights of each other.  
  
Arnold walked behind Helga and, picking up the knife that Eddie had dropped, cut the ties that bound her to the chair. She gazed at her wrists, rubbing the circulation back into them, then jumped up and flung her arms around Arnold's neck, kissing him again and again, as if she couldn't get enough.  
  
"I'm sorry," she breathed between kisses. "I'm sorry…"  
  
"No, I am," he murmured back when his lips were free, holding her as close as humanly possible.  
  
"I really think you both are," a third voice drawled.  
  
They both spun to see Eddie standing in the opening to the tent, aiming a gun directly at them. "Or if you're not yet, you will be," he added dryly, looking faintly amused. He glanced at Arnold. "I don't know why you're not dead yet, but don't worry. You will be soon."  
  
Arnold pushed Helga gently behind him, blocking her with his body. "Don't you dare touch her, Niles," he said in a low, challenging voice. There was the faint noise of propellers in the distance.  
  
"And what are you going to do about it?" Eddie asked, advancing on them. "But I tire of teasing you. I just want you dead. Good-bye." He pulled the trigger.  
  
"No!" Helga screamed, pulling Arnold to one side. She was fast, but not fast enough. The bullet clipped his side, spilling bright red blood across his shirt. Still, it was only a minor wound.  
  
The force of her pull, coupled with the bullet, made Arnold lose his balance, and he fell onto his back, Helga on her knees half-under, half- behind him. The propellers were growing louder and louder.  
  
Eddie stood over them, the gun centered directly over Arnold's heart. There was no time to move, no time to react. They were defenseless. The propellers were almost deafening, but Arnold could still hear Eddie laughing as he pulled the trigger again.  
  
This time there was no dodging, no last-minute reprieve. The bullet hit Arnold's chest dead center.  
  
The propellers were loud, but not loud enough to drown out Helga's anguished scream. 


	16. Salvation

Author's Note: Wow. Those were some intense reviews. I'm just about floored. I guess toeing the line of insanity works.  
  
Anyway, I'm glad people agreed with me about the April Fools episode. I'm not the only slightly perverted mind out there, thankfully. I think that's up in my favorite episodes. And I noticed that we have yet another new Arnold—I'm glad. This one sounds much more like Toran Caudell and Phillip Van Dyke (I hope I got these names right) than Spencer Klein. Movie countdown is ticking nearer…  
  
DropsOfJupiter…yeah, Arnold would be too "enlightened" to see a bra. But I think he was also a little distracted, and he's too much of a gentleman to look or comment. But you did alter a little of the plot in this chapter with your review…I think you'll see what I mean when you read…(I'm trying really hard not to give anything away!)  
  
I'm glad everybody liked Curly's random appearance. He just kind of showed up and looked at me and said "What are you going to do about it?" And I said, "Hey, go ahead, man," because let's face it—I am not about to get into a power struggle with a guy who once framed his own friend for a crime because he chewed up his pencil, holed himself up in the principal's office with all the kickballs because he got passed over for ball monitor, and can sic a large amount of zoo animals on me at any given time. Besides, he's a sweet kid. Someday I will put Nate in a story. Nate is my favorite ("Helga's Show").  
  
Ms. Prongs…wow. That's pretty much all I can say. Wait, let me get my thesaurus…Gratitude: Nouns-gratitude, gratefulness, thankfulness, indebtedness, acknowledgement, recognition, thanksgiving, thanks, praise, paean, Te Deum, worship, grace, thank-offering, requital. Verbs-be grateful, thank; give, render, return, offer, or tender thanks, acknowledge, requite, thank or bless one's [lucky] stars. Adjectives- grateful, thankful, appreciative, obliged, beholden, indebted to, under obligation. Interjections-thanks! Much obliged! Thank you! Thank Heaven! Heaven be praised! Thanks a million! Gracias! Merci!  
  
In other words, thank you. That goes for all of my wonderful readers as well.  
  
Houkanno Yuuhou, thanks for the lyrics. I am currently attempting to download it, and I do think it's possible I will use it in another story, but not this one, as this one is winding to a close.  
  
About the end of the last chapter…all I will say is that some people are very clever…and thorough readers…  
  
Disclaimer: You know what? It's not mine. But Craigers, sweetheart, if you happen to be reading this (it would be SO cool if the Craigmeister actually read fanfiction) not only do I write…and I do write script- fashion, and I am working on things for the screen right now…but I'm also an actress, so if you're looking for a voice-over artist…send me a line…I have candy…  
  
  
  
Part XVI  
  
"Salvation"  
  
Helga went nearly blind with rage. She hurled herself at Eddie, heedless of her own safety. The gun dropped from his stunned fingers as she landed on him, bearing him down to the ground. She clawed at his face, striking him wildly.  
  
Her foot knocked against something. The knife. Holding Eddie down with one hand, she reached back for the knife. Grabbing it, she pressed it against his throat.  
  
Eddie immediately stopped struggling and pressed himself down, as if to burrow into the earth, away from the blade that threatened his jugular.  
  
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you," she growled, her cold blue eyes snapping dangerously.  
  
"You wouldn't," he gasped.  
  
A perfectly arched eyebrow raised. "Wouldn't I?" She pressed down on the knife. A line of blood appeared at Eddie's throat.  
  
"Helga! No!"  
  
Helga turned her head sharply to see Arnold standing behind her, Eddie's discarded gun trained on where Eddie's heart would be, if he had one. Blood stained his side, but none poured from the small, perfectly round hole at his chest.  
  
"But…" she breathed.  
  
Looking a bit flabbergasted himself, Arnold reached under his shirt and pulled out something that looked like a miniature gong. There was a deep dent in it where the bullet had struck it.  
  
"Those propellers drowned out the sound it made," he explained. He shrugged. "When Grandma gives good-luck tokens, she doesn't kid around." Then he grew serious. "Now let him go, Helga."  
  
She turned back to Eddie, who looked like he had seen a ghost. "After all he's done to us?" she demanded angrily. "Why should I?"  
  
She felt Arnold's smile. "It's called mercy, Helga. It's what separates people like us from people like him."  
  
Tears began to sting her eyes. "What if I am people like him?" she wanted to know.  
  
"I know you're not," he said softly. His voice was like a warm blanket, soothing her. "Not really."  
  
Helga stared at Eddie for a long moment. He was silent, stoic, knowing his future was being decided.  
  
"Please, Helga, let him go," Arnold asked, placing a hand on her shoulder. "For me."  
  
That did it. Helga stood up, removing the knife from Eddie's throat and backing away. She stood next to Arnold, letting him encircle her in his free arm.  
  
"Get up," Arnold said contemptuously to Eddie. "I may have stopped her, but don't think that I won't kill you if you try anything."  
  
Eddie got to his feet, slowly.  
  
"Sit down." Arnold gestured to the chair with the gun, and Eddie went to sit there, Arnold's hand and eye following him the entire time.  
  
"Helga, would you get some rope, please?" Arnold asked her gently. Helga gave him a quick grin and searched quickly for some rope. Finding none, she grabbed a wall hanging and used the knife to cut it into strips.  
  
"Tie him up," Arnold commanded. Helga did as she was asked, taking a perverse pleasure in binding Eddie's hands as hard as she could. She walked back over to Arnold when she was finished.  
  
Arnold looked levelly at Eddie, Helga's hand clasped tightly in his free one. "We are leaving now. We won't kill you, but I promise you this—if you ever come near either of us, or any of our loved ones, we will." Lowering the gun, he turned, and Arnold and Helga walked out into the sunshine.  
  
As soon as they did, they realized where the noise of the propellers had come from. A small biplane was ripping across the dig, knocking tents over and scattering Eddie's henchmen like ninepins.  
  
"Our ride?" Helga asked Arnold.  
  
He grinned. "Curly."  
  
Helga surveyed the damage caused by the plane, especially the stockade where the packhorses had been contained, now knocked over, the horses disappearing into the distance. "Yeah, it looks like his work," she agreed.  
  
A couple of Eddie's men noticed them and ran over to them. "Hey, what are you doing?" one asked, looking at Helga. "You're supposed to be prisoner! What happened to Mr. Niles?"  
  
Before he could say anymore, he was unconscious, decked by Helga's left fist. The other ducked around them and ran into the tent. Arnold chuckled.  
  
"I see Old Betsy is back in business," he quipped.  
  
Helga raised an eyebrow. "I got news for you, Arnoldo. She never left. Now come on, we've got a plane to catch."  
  
They headed towards the plane, waving their arms wildly to attract Curly's attention. Apparently he saw them, because he headed their way. Suddenly Arnold stumbled, clutching his side. It was then that Helga noticed just how drawn and gray his face was and how weakly he'd been walking.  
  
"Are you all right?" she asked, concerned.  
  
"Fine," he said, clutching his side. "Just go to the plane. I'll catch up."  
  
Helga shook her head. "Oh, no. I almost lost you—what, four times now? I'm not risking it again." She slung his arm over her shoulder, the arm on the uninjured side, and half-carried him towards the plane.  
  
"Not bad," he said, obviously impressed by her strength. "But um…" He peered back over her shoulder. "You might want to hurry it up."  
  
Helga tensed. "Why?"  
  
"Because that guy let Eddie go and he's heading after us as fast as he can."  
  
Helga glanced back. Sure enough, Eddie was charging towards them. She picked up the pace, closing the last few yards to the plane, which had stopped, faster than she thought possible. Eddie's flunkies were still shooting, and loud *pings!* echoed around her as she helped Arnold into the plane and climbed in herself. Arnold moved slowly, due to the pain of his injury and weakness from loss of blood, and Eddie had made it to the plane by the time Helga was safely inside the cockpit.  
  
"Go, go, go!" she shouted as she squeezed in next to Arnold. Curly grinned as he accelerated.  
  
"I see you're alive, Helga, darling. I must say it's a load off my mind," he said jovially. "You look great."  
  
She knew he was being facetious, with her black eye and slitted torso and unwashedness, but she smiled. "Thanks ever so much, Curly babe, but you'd better floor it or I won't be for long," she tossed back.  
  
He threw her a salute and pulled the nose of the plane up. They left the ground, soaring over the plains towards a small lake in the distance.  
  
Helga peered out the open door of the cockpit, heedless of the winds that battered her, making her eyes water. "I can't believe it! He's climbing into the cockpit!" she shouted, her words barely audible above the winds.  
  
True to her words, Eddie was clinging to the outside of the cockpit door, holding on for dear life. Helga was appalled at his determination to get to her and Arnold, and for a minute she was tempted to stomp on his fingers and close the cockpit door. She reached for the door…  
  
It's called mercy, Helga. It's what separates people like us from people like him.  
  
What if I am people like him?  
  
I know you're not…Not really.  
  
Please, Helga, let him go…For me.  
  
Not understanding it herself, Helga reached down and held out her hand for Eddie's. "Grab my hand!" she called over the winds. "I'll help you up!" She felt Arnold's hand on her back and she knew he was proud of her. It was a warm, comforting feeling, having Arnold be proud of her. She felt herself glow.  
  
Eddie stared at her, uncomprehending. "Take my hand!" she called again, seeing how desperate the situation was. Didn't he understand that he would fall in a minute—and if he fell, there was no way he could survive?  
  
"Take it!" she repeated, shoving her hand in his face. Carefully, holding on tight with his left hand, his legs resting on the undercarriage, he reached for her hand and clasped it tightly.  
  
Helga smiled and began to gently pull him into the cockpit. Before she could, though, a look of pure hate twisted Eddie's handsome face and he yanked, hard. She felt herself overbalance, tumbling forward, pitching headfirst out of the cabin door. She would fall the long distance to the far-off lake below and be killed upon impact, dying brutally, just when she had finally found Arnold, for real this time…  
  
Arnold's strong arms around her waist stopped her plunge. He hauled back on her, pulling her into the cockpit, into safety. Eddie, thus unbalanced, was thrown backwards off of the undercarriage. He screamed as he fell, arms flailing, towards the black water below. He dwindled in size, a tiny dot in the distance, until he disappeared into the lake.  
  
The force of Arnold's tug sent them both into the seat in the cockpit, careening into Curly, Helga in Arnold's lap. Curly's arms were knocked to the side and the plane tilted, causing the door to slam shut. Immediately the noise of the winds receded, leaving them safely within the cockpit.  
  
Helga found herself safe, clasped tightly in Arnold's arms. She tried not to cry with reaction. "I tried to…to do what you said…"  
  
"I know," he replied, kissing her neck. "I know. It's not your fault. Some people…some people are beyond help…even from me," he joked, reminding her of his goody-goody reputation as a child.  
  
Suddenly he seemed to realize that he was holding Helga very tightly and she had only a few scraps of shirt left dangling from her body. He blushed, hard. Maybe his goody-goodyness wasn't completely grown out of yet.  
  
"You need a shirt," he said, moving as if to take his own off. Suddenly he winced and clutched his side. Helga's brow furrowed with concern, and she pulled the rest of her shirt off and wadded it into a ball, holding it to Arnold's wound. His blush deepened.  
  
"But…you shouldn't…I mean…" he stammered. Helga kissed him on the nose.  
  
"You're cute," she said.  
  
He smiled, relaxing. "You're beautiful."  
  
Curly snorted. "You're both sickening."  
  
Arnold and Helga glanced at each other and burst out laughing. Curly, rolling his eyes, chuckled good-naturedly. Pointing the nose of the plane back east, he headed for home.  
  
  
  
  
  
He's not dead! Did I fool ya? You have to bear in mind that I wrote that last chapter on April Fools' Day…I even talked about the ep! It was a hint! Sillies…  
  
Anyway, I beg you to review this, because I need twenty-three more reviews to make my goal and I have only this chapter and the epilogue left. If you're good and I get a lot of reviews, I'll post the epilogue soon; if not, I'll wait, because I really want to make 200. So review, please! (If you don't hate me for my little prank-o. I'm sorry!)  
  
Also, I've got two short, one-chapter fics almost done, a long one about reincarnation in the developmental stage, and I'm definitely gonna write one about Nate. So let me know if you want to hear more from me or if I should just get the heck off of ff.net ASAP. Oh, how I fish for compliments…shameless, isn't it? 


	17. Epilogue (Love)

Author's Note: It's over! Sigh…oh, the nostalgia. Never, fear, I'll have some new stuff up soon. My mind is percolating busily…  
  
Anyway, thank you all for the reviews. I'm only 8 away from my goal now! ( I've tried to tie up a few loose ends in this final chapter…there's plenty of room for a sequel, because a) they still have to go after the Lotus, and b) they never actually SAW Eddie dead, so… But I'm not sure if I want to go back to this story. I have a few very different ideas, and my original stuff, which I'm working on at the same time. So who knows?  
  
Disclaimer: Once again, despite all my efforts at seducing the Craigster, it is to no avail…Hey Arnold is still not mine. So don't sue. 'Cause all you'll get are a lot of taped Hey Arnold episodes and some clothes. And lots of half-used things of lipgloss. Enjoy.  
  
  
  
Part XVII: Epilogue (Love)  
  
Cities have colors. New York is gray and silver. Philadelphia is brown, while Boston is a redder, earthier tone. Miami, and in fact all Florida cities, are terra cotta and stucco. Cairo had been golden and white, while Paris was black, and Rome was pristine and flecked with tropical greenery.  
  
LA, or at least the part of it that Arnold could see from his hospital window, was as gray as New York. That didn't mean it felt like home—only Brooklyn, with its warm reddish brown townhouses all jumbled together and crumbling against the banks of the East River, was home. LA was an alien city, something different and exciting; the hospital, all with all hospitals, was not homey and never could be, with its stark whiteness and cool uncomfortable efficiency.  
  
There was someone, however, who made LA home for Arnold, and she was breezing in right now, looking like a beam of sunlight in a floaty little dress of pink silk. He saw that she wore a pink ribbon in her hair and he smiled affectionately, turning from the window to great her.  
  
"The doctors say I can leave tomorrow," he told her as she came in. He wanted to kiss her, but it was too awkward.  
  
"That's great," Helga replied, setting her purse and a shopping bag down on the bed. "I brought you some decent food—there's a great deli around the corner. How are you feeling?"  
  
"Much better," he said, absently letting his fingers graze over the bandage at his side. "It's still not completely healed, but they say I'm fit to travel now—I'll rest up at the boarding house for a couple of weeks and the doctors in New York can keep an eye on it. Then I can go back to work."  
  
She didn't meet his eyes. "You're going back to New York, then?"  
  
He nodded. "I'll have someplace to stay, there."  
  
He hated this awkwardness that had come between them. After they had escaped, on the plane ride home, everything had been right. And when he had come out of surgery, she had been waiting for him to wake up. But they hadn't really known what to say to each other, and though she visited him ever day over the past week, bringing him snacks and silly little gifts and keeping him company, there had been a strange distance keeping her from him. He loved her, he knew that with certainty, but he didn't want to pressure her. He was willing to wait for her to tell him how she felt—but it seemed circumstance wouldn't allow it.  
  
"You have someplace to stay here," she offered, sitting down on the bed and staring at her hands as if she had never before noticed that they were attached to her wrists. She wanted to tell him to stay, to never leave her—or that she would follow him anywhere he wanted to go—but she was so afraid. What if he had decided that he didn't want her anymore? What if he had changed his mind? Maybe even offering him a place to stay was too much, would scare him off.  
  
He sat down next to her. "You mean—with you?" he asked, hoping that was what she meant. Maybe she was talking about a hotel or something; maybe they had a friend living in the area that he didn't know about.  
  
"If you want to," she said, examining the curved flat nails of her right hand. He didn't want to. He didn't want to have anything more to do with her. He probably wanted to get to New York to be as far away from her as he could.  
  
He studied her profile out of the corner of his eye. Her hair was up in a loose ponytail with the famous pink ribbon, and a slender, pale wisp was loose, hanging across her classic profile. Her black eye had all but healed, with just a slight yellow discoloration around it, and he knew that the cut down her torso had healed into a thin pink line, which would fade even more with time, until only someone who knew her intimately would know it was there. Her battle scars did not make her less attractive—they made her more so, her courage and verve proudly displayed.  
  
"I think I should see my parents and grandparents again," he said, knowing the minute the words were out of his mouth that it had been the wrong thing to say.  
  
"Oh," she replied softly. "Yeah, you're probably right."  
  
There was another long silence. "You could come with me," he offered. "They'd love to see you." Again, the wrong thing. He wasn't inviting her for them, he was inviting her for himself.  
  
"Maybe," she replied, staring into space.  
  
Impulsively, he reached up and tucked the wisp of hair behind her ear. She looked at him, and something tugged on his heartstrings. She looked so scared, so lonely…could she actually not know? Was it possible that she didn't realize he loved her?  
  
"I guess we're even now," he said. She looked at him blankly. "I mean, you saved my life, freed me, and reunited me with my parents. Well, I saved your life too, freed you, and reunited you with your parents. I owe you nothing, right? We're even?"  
  
She shrugged. "I guess so…you never owed me anything…"  
  
He cut her off. "So we are even?"  
  
She looked slightly irritated at his businesslike manner. "Yeah, so?"  
  
He took her hands in his, meeting her eyes. "So now will you believe me when I say I love you?"  
  
It was strange. Helga's heart felt like it was breaking, but in a good way. She was breaking free of her own self-imposed prison, freeing herself from the constraints her own low self esteem had placed her in.  
  
She tried to read Arnold's eyes, but the emotion in them overwhelmed her. She had never seen anyone look at her with real, genuine love—just infatuation. "You mean it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.  
  
He smiled affectionately, as if he couldn't believe that she was so unsure of herself. "You know I do." Suddenly uncertainty passed over his face. "And you…? Do you…um…"  
  
She laughed. "Oh, Arnold, you dummy! Of course I do! I have since we were three years old!"  
  
His jaw dropped. "You what?"  
  
She smiled, placing a hand on his cheek. "It was raining…and you held your umbrella over me…and you've been holding it over me ever since…and I've always loved you."  
  
His grin spread out across the whole of that beloved football face of his. He gave a whoop and stood up, picking her up and twirling her around.  
  
"Arnold, your side! Be careful!" she admonished, laughing all the while. He put her down and cupped her face in his hands.  
  
"Say it again," he commanded, their noses an inch apart. "Say you love me."  
  
"I love you."  
  
"Again."  
  
"I love you. I love you!" Helga felt her fears evaporate like smoke on the wind.  
  
Arnold broke into another joyous yell and swung her around again. "Stop it!" she said, giving him a playful slap on the arm. "I will not have you hurting yourself again."  
  
He put her down, and she pulled his head down to hers, kissing him tenderly. "So where are we going?" she asked when they broke apart after a sweet, brief eternity.  
  
He knew what she meant. "Let's go to Brooklyn," he suggested. "Let's go home, and see our families. And then…"  
  
"Then let's go to Boston and see Phoebe and Gerald," she continued. "And then…I don't want to stay still yet. I don't want to settle down. Not yet."  
  
"Well, there's a lot of traveling in my line of work," Arnold reminded her. "And I still have the Lotus of Nefertiti to find. I think you could get some good poems out of that."  
  
"I could get some good poems out of you," she replied, kissing him again.  
  
"I want more than poems out of you," he teased, tickling her. She swatted him away, and, laughing, he drew her in for another kiss.  
  
LA was a gray city, under a blanket of smog and pollution. The hospital was a sterilized spot of misery and pain in the center of that gray, alien city. But in the center of that cold, ugly hospital in the center of that cold, ugly city was a bright burning pinpoint of love, so strong that for a moment even the city itself seemed something rare and beautiful and enchanting. 


End file.
